The Selection: Carpe Diem (SYOC)
by poets-in-l o v e
Summary: Closed! Now that the young Prince Xavier have come of age, it is time for his Selection. With 35 beautiful girls, 1 crown and new foes transpiring in the darkness, this Selection will be anything but eventful. Who's ready for the Selection of a lifetime? (Set 200 years after America and Maxon)
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! I've started a new SYOC and I welcome everybody to the join. The rules and such are below the chapter. Please read the introduction so you can decide how your character feels about the Prince and well, everybody else.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own what I don't own.**

**RULES. ****Yo, listen up.**

1.** This is NOT a first come, first serve, type of deal. And please do not ask me if your character is accepted right then and there. **You can ask if a character has a chance of making it and I'll honestly reply back but that's it!

2. **No Mary-Sues or Gary-Stews**, no one's perfect and I mean **NO ONE**! Both characters and people in real life have flaws.

3. Deadlines are on **20th January. **

4. Celebrity look-alikes are **needed for the Tumblr. **

5. **ORIGINALITY, DIVERSITY, and DETAIL **are the three most important things that I'll be looking for! **But don't go WAY out the box to the point where it's not believable**. Crazy things happen in everyday life, I'm sure, but c'mon, let's be real here, **life can't be that tragic**! (or as real as I can possibly get, it is Fanfiction after all...)

5. **PLEASE DO NOT POST CHARACTERS IN THE REVIEWS! SEND THEM VIA PM!**

6. Each person can have a total of** two** character submissions. But I can assure you only **one **might make it to the Elite.

7. **If anyone fails to comply by any of these rules, it will really hurt the chance of any and all characters from any rule breakers to be accepted. SO READ THE RULES CAREFULLY! ;)**

**8. Follow the SYOC Form and have fun! Take your time and thank you! :)**

Full Name:

Nickname (if they have one):

Age:

Birthday:

Caste:

Province:

Occupation:

Appearance (eye, hair, build, height, skin color):

Celebrity Lookalike (For the Tumblr):

Pre-Selection clothes (Please include makeup and hair):

Before/After Makeover (What did they change? And if they did, did they like their change? How did their After looked like? Just basically their experience and feelings on the experience):

Family (age, appearance, job, personality and descriptions of their relationship):

History:

Likes:

Dislikes:

Reason for entering:

Personality:

Prince first impression of you're character:

Prince's later perspective on your character:

Thoughts on Prince:

Thoughts on the Prince's one-night stands? (Seriously):

Thoughts on Queen:

Thoughts on King:

Thoughts on Calis: (Xavier's twin sister)

Romantic history (past relationships that may have been affected by participation in the Selection):

How they treat the other contestants:

How they treat the maids (I will be assigning and creating maids):

Strategy to win:

Ideal first date:

Anything else:

**Now onto the first chapter!**

Chapter 1

The Royal Pain of A Prince

It was several weeks before the Selection when Prince Xavier of Illea realized that he was screwed and not in the way he usually wanted either.

His Screwed Majesty's tale started, like all many things including Prince Xavier, with a girl. In his defense, she was a very nice-looking girl with cascading curly hair the colour of mahogany and soft olive skin. But not even the pretty girl in the bed- what the hell was her name again?- could make him forget what he really wanted to forget.

It wasn't even her on the bed.

"Do you want to do something fun?" she giggled, brown eyes wide as she stroke his arm. "I could show you something…" He caught her hand, which had been dipping dangerously low towards the region of his private area, and threw it away as he sat up and ran a hand through his brown hair. The beige walls of the palace's many guest rooms greeted his eyes and made his headache increase. He groaned. How much did he had to drink last night? He slowly rose from his bed- ignoring her protests- and began searching for his boxers.

It was fun while the night lasted, but now all he wanted was to get rid of her, return to his quarters and sleep the hangover off- which was seriously needed, considering he had an interview that night. The girl was a pretty servant and was very much willing but the only reason why he invited her over was probably because she had the same colour hair as Juliana did.

_Juliana_, his heart screamed louder than his mind. It was a nearly year since the night she told him her father had arranged her hand-in-marriage to someone else and broke it off with him, leaving him with not only a shattered relationship but a shattered heart as well. He could still feel the rain on his skin, the remaining taste of her lips as he looked into her dark eyes and held her in his arms for the last time. No matter what happened, she would always beautiful in his mind. Even if she was in a lace white dress, walking down the aisle to another man.

Now he was a self-medicating alcoholic and manwhore, chasing after any type of women who looked even _remotely_ like Juliana.

Oh God, he was pathetic.

"Look," he told her nonchalantly, "Last night was fun, but it's not going to happen again." Clear and firm; that was the way you handled women like these. Women who fantasized and epitomized everything about a perfect boyfriend, make him breakfast, cuddle and _mean something._

God, he hated the mornings after.

"What do you mean we're not going to repeat it?" she demanded and she sounded genuinely distraught, on the verge of tears almost. He found his boxers lying underneath the bed, grabbed it and wriggled it on, then he searched for the rest of his clothes he must have kicked off all over the place the night before.

"You know, um, what is it- a one-night stand? Yeah, you might want to look up the definition of it," he shrugged, pulling a soft chiffon black shirt over his head, "because that's what this is. A one-night stand, which means this only happens once."

"You're going to leave? Just like that?"

"Just like that," Xavier confirmed and abandoned the search for his missing pants. If they weren't anywhere in the room, then where the hell were they? He hadn't been dancing on the table tops again, had he? Maybe he took them off at the tavern and accidentally discard his tailored trousers, trying to get his rich and titled friends to laugh? Ugh, those were brand new!

"But- but why?" she blinked, bringing him out of his thoughts. He considered his answer and settled on the one that wouldn't get him killed.

"Because...I need an aspirin. Mind fetching me some, darling?"

The pillow behind her was catapulted at him.

"What?" he yelped, ducking expertly with his sparring skills. "I really need one! And well, you're a servant right?"

Her face tightened and she harrumphed. She found her maid's dress lying on the chaise lounge, zipped it up and icily marched out of the room, leaving him alone. He sighed. Honestly, _women._ You think they would get the hint by now that he was a heartbreaker, who just wanted fun. Lower your expectations, ladies. Besides, the girl- whatever her name was- was a servant and he was a prince, the crowned heir. What the hell did she thought was going to happen? She became the princess and it was all happily ever?

"Oh, there it is!" He cried out, noticing his pants hanging from the wardrobe's ledge. He must've attempted dancing on the wardrobe. He scrambled into his pants, ran a hand through his hair and deliberately making it messy as though he had just fought a dragon and won and then he walked out.

"You asshole."

Shit, someone caught his walk of shame.

He whirled around and saw his twin sister, Calisia, scowling at him. She looked positively radiant, rocking about her newly-chopped pixie cut (which had been hacked off without her mother's consent and regarded with her mother's distaste). Seriously, he didn't know what his mother was so upset about. The new hairdo looked awesome on Calisia, in Xavier's opinion, and maybe it wasn't as feminine as her old, long sandy locks but the pixie gave Calisia a modern edge that fitted her personality. They were fraternal twins, yet Xavier felt despite the opposite sexes, they looked the same. Calisia and Xavier shared the same chocolate brown eyes, sandy brown-blonde hair that much like Xavier himself often failed to cooperate and the same picture perfect porcelain skin. They even shared almost the same disposition: cheery and light without much seriousness in terms of the dire situation. They always tried to humour the palace up with some jokes and pranks, earning them some troubles along their childhood.

Except where Xavier flaunted his good looks, money, status and ability to woo as many women as possible, Calisia or 'Calis' as she preferred to be referred to, shyed away from it. She hated dresses, girly makeup and attending social parties, much to the horror of their mother. Calis's idea of fun was working out in the gym, punching out bags or sparring with Xavier (and beating his sorry butt at the mean time). In fact, Calis was so uninterested in political parties and being a Lady of Illea, she resigned her claim to the throne and handed full responsibility towards him. The Selection was meant to be for them both to pick out their wives and husbands, but Calis had turned it down and said, straightforward and direct, to their parents: "Xavier can do all the political crap. I quit being the princess."

But luckily, her father, the King, a soft spot for her had always remained and he still allowed her to reside in her previous quarters. And like she requested, he promoted her to be in charge of managing the army since she was a damn good fighter and a loyal comrade. She was now officially Lady of the Guard, the head general of their armies. Unlike the rest of the rich ladies of Illea, she did not wear dresses or jewelry but hang around the castle in her hunting leather jacket, ripped jeans and black tank top with her dagger strapped to the holster belt around her waist.

"You made Indiana cry!" she marched over to Xavier and smacked him on the arm. "Why can't you let her down gently, huh? You're a slimy piece of manwhore."

"Ouch, Cals," Xavier clutched his chest in mock injury. "You wound me. You better watch your words around me, Cals, you're looking at the future King. I might not be as lenient as dad."

Calis snorted. "The day you kick me out is the day I will kick your butt to the moon and back."

He laughed and reached out to wrap his around her shoulder, but she pushed him away. "Ew! You just had sex. And you smell gross. Don't put your arm around me- and don't think I'm not mad at you. You should apologize to Indiana."

"Indiana?" Xavier's eyebrows scrunched together.

Calis crossed her arms. "The maid you just screwed, nitwit!"

"Seriously, that was her name? Thought she was, like, Andrea or something. She looks like an Andrea."

Calis rolled her eyes as they journeyed down the decorated halls of the palace towards his room. "You're such an egghead, ugh. Indiana was so cute. And pretty. You just had to break her heart, didn't you?"

"What, you like her?" Xavier grinned at his sister. That was another similarity they shared- they both liked girls. "Hey, y'know, if you want you can have her. I heard she swings both ways."

"Oh, y'know me, I prefer blondes," dismissed Calis with a wave. "But she's pretty cute from a brunette. A little thin, though. Which reminds me, how the hell are you going to pick _one_ girl for the Selecion? We all know you hop from bed to bed like a frog does from pond to pond."

"Flattered," said Xavier as he opened the door to his room. Instantly, Calis sprinted into his massive bedroom and like the hyperactive little monster she was, she started bouncing on his bed as he spoke: "But come on? It's thirty five _hot_ girls. I'll have my fun and then I guess I'll just settle for 'the one'." He finished with air quotes around 'the one'.

"You don't think you'll love again?" His sister had stopped jumping on his bed and took her place besides him on the bed. "Is this about Juliana?"

He didn't answer her. Instead, he pinned his gaze onto the rich red carpeted floor, focus on the variety of patterns on the fibred floor.

"I know you love her," whispered his sister, squeezing her brother's hand. "And I know it's hard. I mean, you were pretty much a changed man right after you guys got together. You stop sleeping around, flirting with older women. You were almost tolerable. But Juliana's married to the King of England and she made her choices. You know she had to."

"It's whatever," snapped Xavier, standing from his bed. "I don't want to talk about it, okay?"

Calis recoiled at his harsh tone but didn't argue. Xavier was definitely not one of those boys who were up for 'hearts-to-hearts', probably something about bruising his ego and deflating his male pride._ Boys will be boys_, she thought as she drew in a deep sigh.

"Anyway, ready for your interview tonight?" she asked, tactically diverting the subject into something she'd know Xavier was wagging-tails excited for.

He flashed her one of his signature all-knowing smirks and his brown eyes twinkled. "You betcha."

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of Illea! As you all know, notices to participate in the Selection has been distributed through the mail. We've received thousands of beautiful women in Illea, placing their names in the lottery for the Selection. And I would like to thank on behalf of the royal family, King Jaxon, Queen Tallulah and Prince Xavier, for contributing and for your enthusiasm and patriotism. Soon, by New Years, we will be celebrating the engagement of Prince Xavier to a beautiful and enchanting daughter of Illea!"

Those were the words that jarred Xavier into reality, whisking him back to the impending doom that he was on national television and was about to be interviewed by the one and only Casper Fadaye.

Plastering his most charming smile, he looked up expectantly as Casper averted his attention towards Xavier from the smattering round of applause given from the few advisers present. "And now I bring to you the one and only, man of the hour: Prince Xavier!"

Following his cue, he strode across the stage with a certain swagger, a self-possessing walk which was simultaneously business-like and lazy- it suggested that wherever he may be, he would just be as charismatic, handsome, confident and comfortable, and that whoever he might see was lucky he had decided to come after all. He easily towered over Casper's dainty five feet five height, marking the six feet spot, and he was broad-shouldered and well-muscled, showcasing the definition of masculinity.

He smiled his charming, faint-inducing half-smile at the camera, probably causing some teenage girl to shriek and shout his name like a deranged fangirl. "Nice to see you, Your Highness," greeted Casper politely.

"Nah, no need with formalities, Casper. Just call me Xavier. After all, aren't we friends?"

Casper chuckled. "Oh yes, yes we are. All right, Xavier. Tell me, how do you feel about thirty-five women moving into your house?"

"Honestly, I'm excited," Xavier answered smoothly, "Thirty-five beautiful women? Sometimes, I feel spoiled with so much lovely things in one house. We don't have much women around the place. Mostly, it's just dear old Mum and my sister. Maybe with thirty five women in the house, I can finally understand how they function."

Casper patted him on the arm, laughing, and even the rock-hard faces of the advisers cracked smiles. "Definitely, definitely. Women can't be a bit of a handful, eh? Imagine_ thirty-five_ of them. But where would be without them? Any ways of winning their affections?"

"Well, my moves are usually quite adequate," shrugged Xavier informally. "Y'know, the drills- flowers and candy, the frilly and shiny things women like, then the politics and remarkably long bills for the budget. In that order."

Casper was shaking his head, slapping his thighs. "Oh you sir will definitely win their hearts with that sly old tongue of yours."

"I hope the tongue is not the only thing that they like."

Casper tutted, but smiled. "Getting a bit naughty, young Prince?"

"A little bit can't hurt, right?" beamed Xavier infectiously, getting Casper to lighten up along with him.

"Anyway, Prince Xavier, all jokes aside I'd like to ask you one last question. What would your perfect girl be like?"

Xavier hesitated. For once, he didn't have the perfect, suave answer at the tip of his lips because his answer would've been_ Juliana_. But he couldn't say that. It would jeopardize everything so he chose the best he could afford: "I don't know," he wiped his palms against his pants- maybe it was his imagination but had it became tighter after Casper's question? "But I think, look-wise, I don't really discriminate. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, white, dark-skinned or Asian, I like them all."

It didn't sound as superficial as he thought he did, did he?

He hoped so.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys. Still in Hong Kong. Just editing this chap on my phone.**

**Don't own stuff I don't own.**

Chapter 2

The Royal Family

"As I was saying, the rebels are an all-time low this time. We've barely heard attacks over the past six months and even then the attacks are…"

Xavier slipped out of the conversation, bored out of his mind. Was there ever anything his father's advisers ever discussed _other_ than rebels? He glanced at his sister, who was sharpening her nails with her dagger, occupied with her own manicures. I think I need to be drunk for every one of these meetings, he thought sullenly as his father nodded and took the adviser's word into account, scrawling it onto a piece of parchment with his quill.

Stoically, his father adjusted the reading glasses perched on his nose and said: "Thank you, Sir Knightley. This is good news for Illea in a long time. The rebels have finally been quiet."

Lazily, Xavier found the perfect way to spur his boredom.

"You never know," spoke up Xavier, smiling predatorily. Oh how he _loved _proving these stuffy, know-it-all advisers wrong. The way their stern faces went all red was too much of a fun game. "I mean, just because they're quiet doesn't mean they aren't gone or conspiring a massive plan. Doesn't mean we should drop all our defences and celebrate. Carry on with our defences and if they don't attack for the next six months, consider lowering the sentries for securing the regions."

"Wise decision, Xavier," mused his father, his instincts flaring. He immediately knew what his son was up to. "What do you think, Sir Knightley?"

Having the desired effect, Xavier wanted Sir Knightley, a pudgy man, pursed his thin lips. "But our resources are spread far too thin over the last months already!"

"So?" asked Xavier. "Double the production of those resources."

"You must be fantasizing, young highness. We're a small country, we can only do so much."

"Then what about those lower castes? Open up jobs for them to work and we'll repay them with funds, house, food, et cetera. In fact, we'll make those funds easily accessible for those in the caste systems lower than four and create monetary policies for those working in resource production, Sir Knightley. Or we can form loans and trade with the other counties."

The King, Jaxon, watched in amusement, like it was a tennis match. "Alright, alright, Xavier," he simmered, sending his son a calculating _watch it_ look. "We get your point. Sir Knightley, why don't you take several of my son suggestions and put it into courses of action? Inform the others as well."

Sir Knightley, clearly hoofed from losing the argument, sniffled, face a vivid tomato shade, and marched off. Calis laughed slightly. "You tell him, baby bro."

"Did you have to do that?" King Jaxon tutted, as Xavier bathed in the glory of his sass.

"He deserved it," defended Xavier. "And I was bored, Dad. Think of Sir Knightley turning a beautiful beetroot colour as my form of sufficient entertainment to get me through."

The King of Illea rolled his eyes.

"You have to admit, Dad," giggled Calis, "It was funny as hell."

"Come on, you two," said the King, rising from his gold chair. "Shall we go see what your mother is up to? I hear she's attempting to cook. I swear, your mother's a funny woman. Even though she has maids and professional chefs, she still wants to do things on her own."

Together, the three royal members of the palace travelled extensively from the Great Hall towards the Queen's quarters where Xavier found his mother, Queen Tallulah and three other maids, looking vexed as she stirred a batter while watching over three more boiling pots. The three other maids bustled around, preparing various dishes and carrying about different kitchen utensils to help out his mother. He caught sight of Indiana slicing tomatoes and her eyes met his. She seethed and mouthed a curse word, then returned to her work.

Talk about overdramatics.

Xavier shook his head at the vast amount of food. "Mom, what are you making?"

"Pancakes," said Queen Tallulah brightly. Queen Tallulah was originally a Six girl from Belcourt, who won the heart of his father through her domestic skills, weird ramblings and witty dialogue. "And if it's awful, you're oblige to smile and act as if it's the most delicious concoction you've ever tasted."

"How many more dishes are you making?" marvelled Calis, sticking her fingers into the batter and licking them off.

"Calisia! Young lady, you aren't supposed to be eating uncooked batter! Have some manners," she admonished her daughter. "And I'm also making some eggs, sausages and banana bread because, well, who doesn't love banana bread?"

"Honey," King Jaxon kissed Tallulah on the forehead. Xavier and Calis made faces at the public display affection. _Belch_. There was no way Xavier would be able to gulp down whatever horrid creature his mother whipped up if this was going to be a subsequent show. Ignoring their children, King Jaxon regarded the highly cramped kitchen area filled with too many maids rushing about for ingredients: "You do know we have cooks?"

"Oh please, I have rare occasions when I could test out my domesticity. You might as well let me enjoy it while I can. And besides," her mother added as she put down the spatula and bowl, then turned off the ignition of the stove, "I use to be a Six and an impoverished unappointed chef of the family. It's good to remind yourself of our roots." Suddenly, one of the hot ovens had a strange, industrial scent whafting from it.

"Ugh, Mom." Calis's voice was muffled. She was covering her nose. "Ugh."

"And I think I burn one of the cakes...oh dear."

She stuffed the oven mitts onto het hand, endeavouring to save her charred banana cakes.

"Why don't we just let the workers handle it, hmm?" Her husband took her hand and led the family out of the kitchen. "We can enjoy breakfast together."

They entered the Dining Room, a magnificence dominated by a vast oak table completed with silver cutlery, table mats, Queen Tallulah's obsidian vase of her favourite lilies and roses and a sparkling overhead chandelier.

His mother sighed. "Oh very well. And Xavier, tuck in your shirt! You are going to get married in weeks. How can you ever get a girl to like you, much less thirty-five of them, if you're going to be so scruffy?"

"That's what the ladies like!" whinged Xavier, purposely ruffling through his hair and making it seemed as though he had just stepped out of a convertible. "You know, the hot bad messy look. It'll get all their panties in a knot and such."

"Well, it's doing the opposite to mine," mumbled a disgruntled Calis with an exasperated look. Her brother was honestly too much sometimes. His parents shared her opinion.

"How would you know?" shot Xavier at Calis. "You like girls."

Calis smacked her face with the palm of her hand. She looked like she wanted to hit his head acros the wall. With a derogatory look: "How are we even twins, I would never know."

"But you all love me anyway," smirked Xavier, wiggling his buttocks.

"Xavier!" his mother shrieked, appalled. Her motherly face stretched with faint wrinkles and wizened, warm brown eyes she gave her children."Manners! You're a prince, for God's sake. What will other people think? Honestly, Xavier Perseus Fallon, I expect better from the Future King."

His head hung. "Sorry, mom."

Did we also mention Xavier's a mommy boy?


	3. Chapter 3

**Edited: 13/1/2015**

**Hello. There's the first chapter with one of our major characters- Liliana Darcie Evergreen. Major thanks to EmpressSavvy98 who sent this application. Still in Hong Kong but I've edited this on my phone.**

**Don't own what I don't own.**

Chapter 1

Mail's Here

_Liliana Darcie Evergreen_

"Daph, I got it."

Inside the thick layer of my coat, I slipped my hand and slowly slid out a small piece of fresh wheat bread, warm and fresh from the oven. Just the sheer smell of it was enough to make my mouth water and stomach grumble. I closed my eyes, biting my lip as I savoured the smell. It was way too good.

"Oh thanks, Darc!"

My sister's jovial, lighthearted tone brought me back to reality. The bread was for her in the first place. I've managed the risk of using my ten minutes waitress break to sneak into the kitchens and steal a small loaf of bread for her to eat. She was hungry.

"Here you go." Greedily, she snatched the bread, ripped it into halves and stuffed it into her mouth.

"Mmm," she moaned, hungrily swallowing as she settled back into the peeling couch of the backroom behind the kitchens of the go-go bar. Within seconds, the bread disappeared into her gullet.

"Hungry, aren't you?" I chuckled at her as I took a seat next to her. I combed her long dark hair from her face with my fingers and she regarded me sadly, realizing I was left with nothing to eat.

"Darcie." Her eyes watered. Her tone was small and timid. "I'm so sorry...I ate it all."

She began crying.

"Hey kiddo, it's okay," I said soothingly, trying to disguise my stomach growling, "I work here, remember? I get food all the time."

_No, I don't._ But the lie rolled off my tongue easily.

"I wish we could get food everyday," she sighed, her breath escaping her chapped lips in silky mists of cobwebs. "And live like royals. You're pretty enough to be a princess."

"Keep dreaming, baby," I said softly, wishing I could be just like her. So naive. So innocent. God, I'll do anything to save that last shred of youth for her. Just because I didn't have a childhood of bedtime stories and rainbow unicorns doesn't mean she shouldn't.

"It could happen, y'know."

"What do you mean?"

"Y'know, dummy. The Selection! My friend, Nicki, was talking about it at school."

"The Selection?" I chuckled slightly, ruffling her dark hair. Chewing my gun as I said: "You're being silly, Daph. I'm a waitress. And a pole-dancer. They're looking for prissy, refined girls for the competition. I'm not cut-out. I'll probably won't get picked. And besides, it's pretentious and sexist. Two things I hate."

She rolled her eyes. "You hate everything."

"I do not!" I argued sufficiently.

Daphne gave me the look. "Oh yeah? Name one type of person you don't hate."

"Well….I don't hate you."

"That's different," she smacked me in the arm, laughing and smiling. "I'm your sister."

"And that's enough for me."

"Darcie," she whinged, narrowing her eyes. "You're changing the subject. You deserve a break. Come on, Darc, give the Selection a try. Please…" she pouted, using her infamous puppy-dog-eyes tactics she knew could break me.

"I told you the Selection is not my thing," I shook my head, "It's for stuck-up girls who are living on their father's money. It's almost offensive for you to suggest a smart, hard-working girl like me to go for a competition filled with dumb blondes."

"And that's why they'll pick you!" she bounced on the tip of her bed cheerily. "You're smart. And though, you're a bit of a meanie sometimes, you're nice and you're caring. Besides, even if you didn't win, our caste will go up. They'll give you money and stuff. It's not too bad."

"Wait, what?" I inhaled sharply. "What do you mean?"

"I said, it's not too bad."

"No, before that. We get money even if we didn't win? We won't be a Six anymore if I'm one of the thirty-five girls?"

"Yeah…" said Daphne slowly.

"Where did you hear this?"

"Well, I told you. My friend Nicki from school had an aunt that was in the Selection. She didn't win, of course, but she still got loads of money for participating. She's at least a Three."

I was surprised and astonished I didn't even know this. "You're not kidding?" I repeated. "Like, you're being legitimate? If I get in to the Selection, even though I didn't win, we can finally pay bills? And we'll be in a different caste- at- at least a Three?"

"Yes, Darc," she said impatiently, "How many times?"

"Well, do we still have the applications and stuff?"

"It's on the kitchen table," she jumped out of the peeling couch, bouncing on the balls of her ankles, utterly ecstatic. "Does this mean you're going to signing up?" her volume had rose into a high-pitch shriek.

"Yeah," I shrugged, surprising myself. "Let's give it a shot, huh?"

"Ooh, can I give you a makeover for your application photo?"

Before I could answer, the backdoor of the club violently swung open and my boss, Carlos, was shouting:

"Evergreen, what the hell are you doing?" he demanded as I quickly stood up. "You're up on the pole in eight! Why aren't you dressed and made-up?"

"Sorry," I muttered bitterly. And turned to Daphne: "I'll be back soon."

Following Carlos, we hurriedly darted past the kitchens and skillfully avoided black and white cladded waitresses and waitors carrying cocktails on trays, serving those ridiculously rich Twos amd Threes.

The dressing room where all the go-go dancers and various bar entertainers were fitting into their suffocating corsets, or revealing leotards, wearing fishnet stockings and sparkling assets borrowed from the costume department.

My costume tonight was something coming from what those would call the 'Jazz Age'. It was a black shimmering black leotard with fringe running up my curves and several parts of my back exposed due to the cutouts and criss-crossed patterns. My velvet tophat was falling into my eyes as I laced up my black leather boots. My makeup was rather cakey; smokey black eyeliner and red lips with a pound of foundation. And I smelled like a perfume shop after my hair was tied up and hidden underneath a bob wig.

"Evergreen, you're on. And make me big bucks tonight."

I flashed him my best seductive smile. "Will do, Carls."

He grunted, satisfied.

I readjusted my hat and fixed the last of my makeup. I hated this job. I could've preferred just being a waitress- at least I didn't have to put on some slutty costume and flirt with rich married Twos but it paid a hundred a night, which was what I needed to put Daphne through a good school.

"And go!"

I marched onto the stage where the pole awaited me. The crowd of men (and women) went wild as I smiled and blew a flirty kiss. The music switched from the techno, simplistic beat to a smoother rhythm of swinging jazz.

Grabbing a hold on the pole, I expertly twirled as I circled the stage, my eyes connected with the audience as I scanned them but I never made specific eye contact. Carlos told me I was young and attractive, which was enough to earn me some good tips but I needed to make the men feel as though they were the only one, despite being in a packed room. Eye contact meant I was handlocked to one person and one person only. Eye contact was personal. This was business.

The night sped past me in a tedious blur. It was not a bad night. I got sixty bucks in tips. I shimmied and shook, caused the crowd to cheer and give a standing ovation when I delivered my best trick: pulling myself up onto the pole and wrapping my lithe body around it. My heart pulsed when I managed to make a smooth landing- it was always so difficult to perfect in practice.

When my act was over, I forced my money into my bra to hide it from the other girls. They were all just like me: Sixes, whoring themselves out to feed their families or keep their homes. They wouldn't at all hesitate to clump me in the head with their heels and steal my money. It was cruel, but I understood their position. I watched sadly as a twelve year old attempt to pin up the corset properly on her undeveloped body. She didn't look twelve. She looked twenty something with the makeup she had on. Seeing her, I thought about Daphne and shuddered. I would never, ever let Daphne become that desperate- me I'm fine with, but not Daphne.

Besides, Daphne wouldn't be able to handle what it's like to be up there. If the men got too drunk and decide to become handsy, reaching for your breasts or butts, she would be too afraid to decline or too polite to say no. That was Daphne; delicate and a sweetheart. If any of them tried anything with me, I'll knee them in their precious family jewels before you can say 'shouldn't have done that'.

"Good job out there, Evergreen," said Carlos, his bushy brows furrowing. Carlos's brows furrowing and grunted comment was a normal human's equivalent to clapping me in the back and showering me with praise. To weasel a smile out of a Carlos was impossible; I had more of a chance in winning the Selection. "Hear's your paycheck for the month."

He handed me the cheque and I placed it the same position with all my tips- inside my bra. "Thanks, Carls."

"Carlos," he corrected.

"You'll always be Carls to me," I treated him to a wicked smile.

"I'm your boss."

"And I'm one of your best girls." Even though I hated it, I was surprisingly good at poledancing and go-go dancing.

He sighed. "Just get out of my sight, Evergreen."

"Will do, Carls."

Some habits just die hard.

Smiling cheekily, I ran a hand through my messy hair, combing past the knots and entanglements my hair had made. It was the best haircare I could ever afford. Carlos let me go, saying my shift was finally over. Changing into my normal clothes, I grabbed my cheap, wartorn satchel and clasping Daphne's hand like a lifeline, we journeyed out of the club and took the bus home.

The bus stopped at the streets of a rundown, eerie neighbourhood. Many of the homes here had poor plumbing, low ceilings, crumbling decor with deteriorating white paint. Lots of local gangs and mock 'rebellion' groups haunted the streets, pummeling any guy or lecherously molesting any girl who they've caught under their traps and mugging their money. Ever since I was a kid, I've taught myself the best way to defend myself. I've hung out with the street kids, who taught me street fighting and how to throw a good punch, despite my feminine strength and small built. I needed to defend myself to stop those gangs from raping Daphne or me, or just handle my mother in general. Usually, every time I head out, I brought a kitchen knife and for my best home security, it was literally a pair of junkyard fences I've nailed to the doorway. My mother, however, was a different story.

As I unchained the fences and locked them back together again, we've heard crashes of my mother latest drunk detour around the house. Fear numbed my limbs. My mother's drunk states were either passed out on the living room's couch, the one I prefer, or screaming about her old life and throwing shards of tequila glasses at random furniture, putting us more into debt than we already are. "Great," I mumbled, "she's smashed...again."

I winced when the front door creaked as I clicked it open. "Don't make a sound and go to your room," I ordered Daphne. "I'll take care of her."

"But- but what if she hits you again with the bottle?" inquired Daphne, her bottom lip trembling as I gave her a reassuring smile.

"Hey, it's not going to happen again," I promised, more confident than I felt. "Go ahead, buddy. It's a fun day for us tomorrow- I'm taking you to the circus."

Her eyes widened. "Really?"

"You bet, kiddo . Now get some rest."

She scampered off to her room as I mustered the courage to face my mother. Steeling my nerves, I made my way past the miniature kitchenette, my boots scuffling along linoleum floor and found my mother in her bedroom, talking to herself with a bottle of half-finished cheap red wine in her hand.

"You!" she shrieked as I flinched at the volume, making it pass the threshold of her room. Come back, huh? After a night of screwing other men? Clean your face up! You look like a whore."

I remained hostile and unbreakable.

"Mum," my cupid lips shaped the single syllable, "Calm down."

"Y'know, your father was a bastard," she slurred, staggering on her own two feet. The room stank of the rancid aroma of wine, puke and alcohol. "Two months right after he knocked me up, he just took everything and left. Every goddamn cent for that other Fray family in Kent!"

My hand slipped into her drawer, ignoring her words, her comments, her insults, as I inserted her stimulation meds into the needle and drew it out tight. "Mum, settle down. Take your meds," I whispered smoothly, "And we'll all go nighty-night. Forget dad. Forget everything else, hmm? Doesn't that sound good?"

"May….bee…" she enunciated as if it was a lot of trouble. I approached with caution, needle in between my thumb and index finger. She was nestled on the bed, head lolled onto the pillow as she fixed her glassy amber eyes. They resembled Daphne's beautiful ones, but they lacked compassion and warmth like Daphne's. In fact, it was devoid of any emotions. "But...you know, you were the worse thing that happened to me. One minute I was rich, a Two...can't you believe I was a Two dear Daphne?"

"It's Darcie, older by four years and taller by a head but never mind,"I couldn't resist spitting out sarcastically.

"You're all the same," her long fingernails dug into the flesh of my chin as she cupped my face and squeezed. I wriggled out of her grip, but blood dripped down my neck. "You're young and so beautiful, _you still have it all!_" Spittle struck my face and I blinked the saliva out, wiping it onto my arm.

There she goes again, screaming and hysterically sobbing. "Mum," I muttered, holding her down as I straddled her body between my legs and readied the needle onto her exposed arm. "Hold still."

"Get off me!" she yelled out, thrashing and kicking as I struggled to maintain balance. "Get off me, you crazy bitch!"

In one swift motion, I pushed the needle into her arm and injected the serum into her. Three seconds later, the thrashing stop and I released a breath I didn't even know I was withholding. Her pulse slowed down and her eyes drooped. She drifted off into a dreamless state. I almost wished I could do the same.

Exhausted, I collapsed besides her. For five minutes, I just lay there, immobile. I peered at her face, peaceful and serene as she slept. She was still kind of beautiful, if you minus the messed-up mascara streaming down her cheeks and the smudged lipstick. Her features remained, in spite of old age catching up: the same slanting ski-slope nose and cupid lips, the same long dark hair and long black lashes fluttering. She was still beautiful, but broken beyond repair. Just like me. I mean, honestly, instead of running away from the crazy mother, I ran towards her.

I can't really hate her, even though she treated me like crap and she never paid for the bills. She spent all the money she worked for on alcohol and drugs so you can say she sucked royally on being a mother. But there were a few rare moments when she did show love. When I was younger, during the time period of when she was with Daphne's dad, she was much happier and livelier. She'd take Daphne and I down to the circus, doing our best for entertainment since we can't afford a TV or radio. She called us princesses and spoiled us with fifty pence ice creams. Then her boyfriends all left, because of selfish gains, and she crippled into this havoc shell of emptiness and bitterness. I didn't hate her because I felt sorry for her. Life kind of run you down like a big yellow bus, huh?

The thing was, Mom used to be this rich-ass chick who lived on the far side of town where she was brought up as governor's daughter. She wore sparkling dresses, dined with celebrities and had the best things. Then she did something so unspeakable, accidentally caught making out with one of the Caste 6 servants who was a...girl. She was kicked out, disowned and abandoned onto the streets. Yeah, life sucked. People were horrible and they'll always be the type of people who were given the best.

Rising from my bed, I glanced at the reflection of the cracked mirror in my mother's bedroom. I looked horrible. I hardl ever had time to look in the mirror, since self-indulging activities like fixing my appearance was unallowed. There were eye bags under my eyes from undersleeping. I wore this stressed-out expression that I couldn't change no matter how times I tried weaseling a fake smile onto my face and my hair was far too long. It had passed the tail of my back and I stroked the rough split ends. It still resembled a ratnest, despite my fruitless attempts to make myself more attractive. Not to mention, there was this pulsing, oozing red zit on the tip of my nose. And my neck was bleeding uncontrollably, from the scratches my mom had made.

I took a tissue packet lying on the floor and grabbed a couple, then pressed it onto my neck to suppress the bleeding.

I checked on Daphne, who was safely sleeping in her makeshift bed- a mattress and several ragged blankets. She was chattering slightly as she pulled it tighter around her body. I squeezed my eyes shut- in frustration or anger I couldn't figure it out. But the emotion was swelling hot and fast, ready to burst. Sweet, delicate Daphne freezing underneath thin layers of cloth. She didn't deserve it.

I closed the door softly so I wouldn't wake her up, but I released my anger by kicking a wooden living room chair. Pain shot up my leg, however, I didn't care. I looked down on my corset underneath my wool jacket, so sick and tired of giving so much and getting so little.

Needing to clear my head, I stole cigarettes from my mother's packet and head out to my yard.

By 'yard' I meant a cement patch where shrubbery poke through the cracked floor and dirty garden benches were located. Also, you get a first-class view of someone else's 'yard', line of laundry and a third-degree robbery.

I was way too poor for a lighter so I striked a match and lit my cigarette. Admittedly, smoking was my way of coping with things. Well, that and some drinks and pills.

My mom got me hooked when I was, like, nine. My mom hated doing these leisure activities alone sometimes so she forced me to join. Smoking was more maladapative towards me but looking at what happened to my mother I took my pills and drinks in measured amounts.

It was my only form of proper leisure. I couldn't sleep because our house might get robbed or my sister might get raped or my mother will have another fit and try to kill everybody in the house. So I watched it as the cigarette's sparks flicker and die out and by the morning, I had to take Daphne to school and sleep for two or three hours, get dressed for my day waitress job and work. I would pick up Daphne from school, shoot my mother with her meds and sleep for another one or two hours, then head over for my shift at the bar. And repeat for the rest of my life.

Or maybe not...

I remembered the Selection applications lying on the kitchenette table. I went and grabbed it, along with a pen and started filling the form.

**So there's the first (edited) chapter with the first one up. Because the original was shit. Next will be Mckenzie Fray and several more characters you'll see at the post office, mailing their applications in.  
><strong>

**Please review. Thoughts:**

**What do you think of the chapter?**

**What do you think of Darcie?**

**And did you enjoy it or any feedbacks?**

**Thanks and lots of love.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Announcement: I'm going to Hong Kong for the next five days. I'll be back on the 15th, which is close to the SYOC deadline. So keep them coming. The main characters' slots are pretty tight now, so if you're aiming for that the character has to be 1) REALLY REALLY DETAILED- like down to the last painted toe. 2) The persona has to be different. No more sassy bitches, no more silent Mean Girls, no more 'nice girls'. Think of different people. And I wouldn't mind if one of the main girls had a disorder, or something. Something they're struggling with that's personal. **

**Second thing, I'm looking for more supportive cast and minor characters**


	5. Chapter 5

**Back and kicking bitches! I hope you like this chapter. I will do two more OCs, discussing background work and then we get all 35 of those ladies to the palace, transitioning from the POVs from Main Characters. Still accepting, but I have a heavy mail box to work through so I can't guarantee it'll be accepted. Also for those main character submitters, I loved all the possible plots you've suggested! The whole thing for Main OCs is not closed yet, since I'm carefully choosing but remember to increase your chances SUBMIT plotlines and don't just copy and paste from the Selection original ideas. Throw them at me. Hell, even suggest to bring in characters from your main OC's past/background/storyline- whatever. Treat the main OC as though you're about to write it in your own story. I know I'm asking for a lot but yeah. It's not first come, first serve. It's the ones that has the most ground in making the SYOC Selection as awesome as possible. **

**Besides, I have an evil conniving plot surfacing soon...**

**Oh and just a question for those OC submitters, how are you with them dying? (Just kidding but seriously I want blood. If you're okay with it, tell me in the PMs).**

**Don't own stuff.**

Chapter 2

Oops, I Did It Again

Mackenzie Fray

"Oi, Max! Hey, Kenzie. Yo Maceroni, come on! It's me- Hunter!"

I whirled around, drink in hand, and spotted one of my bandmades, the drummer, weaving past the intoxicated crowd. I waved, smiling as Hunter joined me, adroitly avoiding a slurring boy who was pretty much white-girl wasted, passed out on the floor with dool leaking out of his mouth.

"Hey, Hunter," I greeted amiably, swaying my head to the thumping beat of the rock song blasting on the overhead speakers. I surreptitiously admired how loud and encompassing the sound was. I'd outdid myself. Again.

"What do you think?" I held up my arms, as if gesturing it to the main scene of the hundred- or so teenagers bouncing up and down to the music, swirling and inebriated with alcohol and possibly drugs. I didn't know _what_ exactly the sort of mind-altering substance had been used but I was sure it was illegal considering the idiots I've to screamed at for trying to climb my mother's cupboard of awards. I had to double check with Beck, another one of my bandmates, what had she asked from her 'boyfriend'.

The party was gorgeous, if there was a word for it. It was in full-swing and most certainly illegal. The place had been a show of bright, neon lights flashing over the dim settings and the area was filled with dry-ice smoke, making it extremely foggy and difficult to notice the crowd properly. Today's crowd was a bunch of rich teenagers or youthful celebrities, releasing that knot of teenage angst through alcohol and partying. Some faces I've recognized; those on overplayed commercials or the kids of some rich executive in the trade business. Couples lurked in the corners, making out or pretty much renacting_ that_ scene from an explicit movie. Their hands were roaming to unexplored places excitingly and it was fleeting. They only loved each other for the night. Those who ween't exchanging salvia or occupied with their mouths were on the dance floor, shaking or jerking their limbs with the occasional shimmy of the chest- though that reserved for the majority of the female population. Girls were cladded in the shortest things they could sneak out of the house with, their lack of materials made up for their lack of attention given. The boys were either betting on how long they lasted on the keg stands or showering the pole-dancers with torrents of cash.

I loved all kinds of parties, really. From your fancy soirees and sipping expensive wine with your parents' richest guests to the good ole' fashion club raves, I loved them all. The more illegal, I've learned, the better.

"Perfect," Hunter shouted over the music, admiring the euphoric commotion, the vibrant chaos. It was almost poetic. "You've outdone yourself. What are we celebrating again?"

"Uh well…" To be fair, I just called up everyone I knew on a whim and within fifteen minutes, they showed up with their own uninvited guests. I threw this party because my parents had been driving me crazy- again. I've gotten a C average for my grades and they weren't too ecstatic about it so they took away my phone and privileges to perform at gigs- yes, it was a bad grade but I've promised I'll do better next year. Wasn't that enough? So while Mom was at her awards show and Dad was far, far away in the Whites, training brand new guards, I threw a party. "Just for the cause of celebrations,_ duh_."

"Classic answer, Kenz," she slapped me on the arm playfully and I gave a half-smirk. "But don't you think Beck went too far with the strippers? I didnt even know Illea had strippers."

"They aren't strippers," I corrected her, "They're exotic dancers. At least, that's what Beck said was on the card…"

Hunter laughed, but the sound was drowned out by the loud rock music and pounding chatter of the audience. "Anyway, see you later. I'm getting more drinks. You want any?"

"Nah," I shook my head. "You go have fun."

Maybe Hunter was right. The girls dancing around the extensible poles set up in my living room was a tad showy, but the crowd seemed to love them. There was a particular one up there, her hair was dark and eyes a piercing blue; she wore a gag, sluttier version of a dress I saw the Queen Tallulah wore on one of the Capital Report interviews before. The guys were crazy around her pole, throwing her wads of cash as she laughed and spun her slim, slender legs around the silver stick. She blew a kiss and they cheered again, loud and obnoxious. As if it needed to get any more rowdy.

I looked away before I started questioning my sexuality and bumped into a girl I didn't see coming my way. Her soda spilled over my top, drenching my _New Romantics_ top- a band I dearly loved- and she gasped, covering her mouth. "Oh God, I'm sorry," she murmurred. She grabbed a tissue packet in her pocket. "Here, let me help."

I was about to say 'Never mind' when I realized it was Victoire Caravel who had sodden my shirt with cherry soda. "Oh wow, aren't you Victoire Caravel?" I marvelled at her, familiarizing myself with her face that had been posted on every ad for cars imaginable. She must've been invited over by someone...who invited someone. Well, it was probably someone I knew somewhere deep in the recesses of my memory. "The car racer?"

She was caught off-guard at my answer and smiled enigmatically, her glossy lips catching the neon pink rays. "I didn't think anybody would recognize me."

"Well, I did," I twirled a corner of my blonde lock and stuck out a hand. "The name's Mackenzie Fray."

"I know," she said instantly, and retracted her statement: "I mean, I know you're Mackenzie Fray. I listen to some of your band's stuff."

"Great, you should check out new album. Comes out in a few months."

"Ah, advertising?" she chuckled at me. "At this hour with this much alcohol around?"

I shrugged and smirked. "I always love mixing business with pleasure."

"Sure you do." There was a glimmer of her smile.

"So, um, have fun and help yourself," I pointed to the table where platters of party junk food were laid out and displayed sufficiently. "And invite all of your friends to another Mackenzie Fray party. We're the best of the best."

"And illegal," she gestured to the girls spiralling around the poles.

"That's the best kind of fun, right?" I grinned jokingly and patted her back as she saluted me and head on over to the Drinks Station to reload on the spiked cherry soda.

"Is that who I thought it was?"

Link, an ex-boyfriend of mine, stared at me with his hardened grey gaze. I raised my hazel eyes to meet his, challenging him with a slow, smug smirk coiling at the corner of my lips. I've carefully selected my outfit tonight- my best pair of fake leather pants, a sleeveless New Romantic top which had it's halfway hem wet by cherry soda, several chains and my usual brand of heavy eyeliner and a nude lip. Per usual, his arm was slung around another girl, a brunette with grey-blue eyes and an expression of utter admiration.

"Link, you're here," I plastered my fakest smile, the same smile my mom used when she met rival actresses during awards show, "It's nice to see you again. And...this is…?" My eyes darted towards the girl, who regarded me with polite sincerity. My heart deflated in guilt. My beef was with Link, not this poor girl who had no idea what was going on.

"Eilley," she introduced herself giddily. "Eilley Worcester. You're Mackenzie, right?"

Mockingly, I couldn't resist it: "T_otes_," I mimicked the typical white-girl slang. "Link, what are you doing here?"

"Having fun," he said, the duh was massively implied. "What else?"

"Just stay the hell away from me," I snobbed, crossing my arms. "And my parties. Consider yourself uninvited. Now get out."

_Yes, that's it, Kenzie. _I told myself. I sounded cool, hot and way too awesome for him to hang around; it was along the line of 'you can suck it'. I liked how it sounded. Guessed he should've thought twice before cheating on me with his sister's best friend.

As I strode off, satisfaction burning in my stomach, I heard Eilley's words carried over to my ears: "What the hell is her problem?"

"She's just jealous babe…"

I'd almost turned around, about to snap: "No, I'm not!" and slap him but I bit my lip and grinded my teeth together. What did I even _see_ in that asshole? Oh right, it was him and his guitar, those riffs and magical voice...I can't believe I was so stupid to fall for it anyway.

"Come on, Mac," I muttered to myself, pushing my way past the grinding couples and forcing bile back into my throat. I've tons of relationships before. Strings of guys, honestly. Why did Link matter? He was an asshole, anyway. "Forget him. You need a drink."

No, I didn't need a drink.

I just needed to be _drunk._

* * *

><p>Crap.<p>

Crap. Crap. Crap.

I swore loudly, the expletives messily sprawling out of my mouth as I sat up, head screaming with blood curdling shrieks as I groaned and found myself lying on a couch full of things that I didn't even want to know. I coughed and clutched my head. "Stupid," I mumbled, sitting upright and rubbing my eyes. "Need...coffee…" More importantly, I needed to clean the hell out of this place. Why the hell did I drink fourteen shots?

Crap. Crap. Crap.

It was the only word I could think of at the time, during the first waking moments of my hangover. Climbing out of the couch, I tripped off a pair of shoes I've somehow magically kicked off last night and straggled around the area, groaning as I tried to focus my eyesight around but was instantly blinded by the searing lights streaming in the gaps of the curtains. "Ugh..." I moaned, "Motherf..."

Every part of my body ached like hell. "Bathroom," I grumbled as I shuffled into the nearest bathroom, which wasn't hard to find in the gigantic mansion of my parent's six-bedrooms-five-bathrooms dinosaur. I reached the sink and turned the tap, splashing water onto my face as I rinsed of the last remaining shreds of my dignity.

"I'm never drinking again," I croaked at my half-dead reflection. I looked like something out of a nightmare. My mascara and eyeliner had blackened my cheeks and made me looked as though I was an obsessed fangirl who had her heart broken by a celebrity I never met. My blonde hair was as though I've barely wiggled out alive of a riot. And my newest leather pants were ripped in area I didn't even want to divulge personally. "Never drinking vodka...not even looking at vodka again. Okay, Kenz, you're not..."

I couldn't even finished the sentence. I gurgled and rushed over to the toilet, flipped the lid open and emptied the liquified contents of my stomach into the bowl.

"I'm gonna _kill _Becks," I muttered as I pushed myself up after I was done. What the _hell _was in that punch?

I staggered onto my feet when my mother screamed the words that made all kind of things shrivel back up into my body: "Mackenzie Nicole Fray!"

Oh, shit.

"Yeah?" My head poked out, sounding innocuous.

"_What- is- all-of-thi_s?" Every painful word was shot out like bullets out of the gun. I winced at the volume. It was no good for my hangover. Melissa Fray, the mega superstar, was standing in her designer red heels over an ocean of red plastic cups, chip wrappers and various other rubbish tossed around by the party-goers last night. Melissa's lips were pursed so tight they've turned white in inexplicable rage.

"Um, too much fun?" I weakly offered.

"A party!" she raged again, fuming as she placed her hands on her hips. Mom was fabulous as always, but she was pissed off like I'd never seen her before. "You had one when I was at the awards?"

"I'm sorry, okay?" I sighed. "It was just a get-together, but it got out of hand. Becks invited too many people."

"I'm not falling for that excuse ever again," she jabbed a finger at me, it's digits nearing the bridge of my nose. "Go to your room. Your father and I will decide your punishment once he arrives home from Whites."

"Fine," I huffed and slumbered up into my room, falling straight into my bed. I smelled like a sewer and there was a suspicious white stain on the back of my leather jacket...I mustered the effort to get up and head for a shower.

Once I'd scrubbed every fibre and molecule of my body free from any possible toxics, I stumbled down stairs, following the never-absent sound of morning conversation.

"...out of control," I heard my mother said in to her phone. She sounded like she was talking about me. She was. I knew from her clipped, but worry tone. "Like, honey, she had a party while I was gone! The whole living room looked as though we had an apocalypse of sweaty, drunk teenagers. And there were poles. There were strippers! It's illegal. What if she gets caught? I…"

I faded out of the conversation, uninterested to listen to my mother rant to my father about my recent misdeeds. I had enough of it when she was talking to me. "Who needs breakfast?" I sighed to myself and just retreated into my room until the war was over. So basically I did nothing for the rest of the day. I played some guitar, fooled around with a new melody I had in my head for the past few days and slept the hangover off.

When I finally woke up, the skies outside the white wooden frames of my window was painted in an inky mixture of dark blue, pink and purple with a blotted round shape of fiery orange and blinding red. My headache didn't totally disappear but it's pain had alleviated, easing my body into a more relaxed state. My feet landed onto the warm, carpet as I stretched and yawned. I must've slept all afternoon.

"Dinner's all ready!" hollered Adam, muffled by the shut door. Adam was my brother and he was an idiot. "Sophie, Kenzie, get your butts down here."

I took the robe hanging from my coat rack and put it over my sloppy band shirt and track shorts, then braced myself to face the music. I wondered what imaginative punishment my parents had in store for me this time. Really, it was a matter of time before I defied it again.

What I didn't know was that this time it'd be different.

* * *

><p>"We've decided your punishment." My father, Peter, often spoke in a catatonic tone that was dull and military-like, as if he was discussing war strategies rather than lecturing his own daughter. The face that was my father was set in stone of an unreadable expression, sort of a poker face but it never shifted into any variety of different emotions. I fiddled with the silver spoon in my hand as I avoided his eyes and feigned interest for the ground. Will it kill for him to smile once in a while?<p>

"And?" I asked, not bothering to keep the bored tone out of my voice.

They didn't respond.

"Let me guess," I chuckled, "Take my phone away, which you've already done. Stop me from going to my gigs but my album is almost out in three months and a tour is due. What would it be this time?"

"Mackenzie Nicole Fray," my mother hissed, stabbing her expensive cutlery into her steak. The dinner was uncomfortable. Adam and Sophia were freakishly quiet- an odd characteristic from Sophia, considering she'd never missed the chance to blab about the things she learned at school or the coolest new song she heard on the radio, a characteristic that mostly annoyed everybody else but I found endearing.

I decided not to roll my eyes. Mom was already taking it out on her poor china. She was beyond pissed. "Sorry," I said, easing tension. Melissa Fray was still indifferent but the force within her clamped fingers on her steak knives lessen.

"We've decided to put you into the Selection."

Beat.

Wait…

_What the actual hell?_

My fork clattered onto the ceramic plate.

"What d-do you mean?" I stared at my father's impassive face. "What do you mean you're putting me in the Selection?"

Melissa bit into the crunchy carrot. The sound of her teeth gnashing the vegetable into tiny pieces echoed through the resonating halls of our dining table. "You're going into the Selection," she said contemptuously, "It's the only way to straighten you out."

"And you get to be the princess!" added Sophia brightly.

"Not now, Sophia," barked Melissa. Sophia wilted into her seat. My mother took in account of my expression as she gloated: "Yes, dearest Kenzie, you'll be heading for the Selection. I hear the Miss Geraldine is an exceptional women at grooming fine ladies."

"You're selling me out to marriage?" I echoed, staring at my father's vacant eyes- well, eye. He had an eye patch covering his injured iris. "Are you- are you kidding me?"

"I," said my father pompously, looking quite terrifying with a butter knife and a teacup in the other hand, "do not kid. This is beneficial for everyone."

"How- what are- how the fuc-"

"MACKENZIE!" my mother snapped at me, "We do not, in any circumstance, tolerate profanity in this house."

"Oh, stop fooling yourself." I couldn't help myself but snarked inconsiderately. Seriously, shipping me off to the Selection and forced into marrying an asshole for just one freaking party?! Parents should seriously be considered for being the most dramatic people in history. "You say it, Dad says it, Adam says it. Hell, even Sophia says it."

"I do not," squeaked Sophia innocently.

"And second, you want me to marry Prince Xavier Fallon, the butthead of all_ buttheads_?" I didn't hesitate on saying. I've never met Prince Xavier in real life, only from the end of my TV screen. But from the interviews, the new girl every week on the cover of some gossip magazine, I gathered he was pretty much a pig who spend more times on other people's beds than girls at slumber parties. They wanted _that_ guy, the same guy Mom tutted about and Dad disapproved of? Talk about lowering your standards. I tried my best to salvage the pieces: "I'm your daughter….don't you love me and shit?"

"You don't have to marry him," simmered my mother as she primly wiped her mouth with her folded napkin. "Just there to meet Miss Geraldine, who's the finest lady in court. She will teach you how to behave properly, how to drink tea, curtsy. She'll straighten you out, which is exactly that needed to be done."

They weren't sending me to the Selection for marriage. They knew well enough if I didn't want to marry him, I wouldn't. They just wanted me to start acting more refine, throw less crazy parties, be more grounded, had one-on-one etiquette lessons with the famous Finishing School director brought in all the way from the United Kingdom. But I guessed I could say no whenever I wanted to. And it'd be interesting to see how the Selection went. All this talk about the grand event had piqued my interest into seeing how it unfolded and this could be a chance to watch it happen on the inside.

I didn't have to like the Prince.

And besides, like Sophia had so effortlessly and jocularly exclaimed over the fragrant meals of mother's chef cooking:

"You get to be the princess!" she squealed.

* * *

><p><strong>And badam, badum, bang bang.<strong>

**I thought the last bit was hilarious.**

**Did you?**

**Anyway, to me Mackenzie was the 'wild card' of the story. She's your celebrity kid gone wild. Think Madonna's Lourdes but Lindsay Lohan version. And they've registered her into the Selection to straighten her out. I know it's not the original reason (kind of) but I thought...why not? (Don't be mad, don't be mad). I hoped I portrayed her correctly though. And also if you've sent in a character, mind sending me what you want the people to think of your character. Like, for example, in the Hunger Games, the public called Katniss 'The Girl On Fire' and I thought when they do their interviews and such, this is where it comes in.**

**So review!**

**Tell me:**

**What do you think of Mackenzie?**

**Did you see all the other OCs shoutouts?**

**And feedback, please?**

**Thanks.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Don't own stuff. The SYOC is still open but only in four more days! SUBMIT NOW.**

Chapter 3

The Bitch's In Town

Rosalind Campo

"Remember I _want_ lace! And no buttons. _Girl Talk_ had said buttons are, like, totes no and _so _last seasons. It's absolutely no buttons, got it? Just use zippers or something. The skirt parts needs to be pouffy, like really big and stuff. Oh, remember how I said lace? Like, maybe not. I was thinking of chiffon or satin. Like, which is pricier?"

I wanted to murder this bitch.

With her goddamned lace.

And when does she ever stopped_ freaking_ talking?

I buried my face onto the table, the _thunk _of my skull hitting the wood echoed through the shop as I clenched the lace material in my hands. Maybe, I wondered, if I slammed my head hard enough onto the table, I'll die but at least I wouldn't hear the sound of her annoying voice ringing into the back of my skull.

My poor mother was nodding vigorously as she jotted down instructions furiously, struggling to keep up with the pace of the girl spouting out materials and sequins. Her face was tense and passive, sweat dribbling down the temples as the white, rich girl before her continued blabbing and listing the numerous designs she wanted for her dress. All I could do was sit back and keep my mouth shut so we don't lose our potential client. I made a sound of disgust at the back of my throat. What a shame. I would've loved to smack her infallibly stupid blonde pint-head all the way to New Asia and back.

Yes, I had anger management issues.

And I despised people.

And I haven't had my morning coffee. So screw you, I was in my biggest bitch mode at the moment.

The only reason why I hadn't said anything against Barbie right there was because my mother gave me occasional terse side-glances, as if to say _play nice_ or _shut up and sit down_. Luckily, I rather choked on my own bile than play nice so I chose the shut up option- another lucky thing for Blondie too. Wouldn't be too sure she would survived my hands reaching for her neck.

I knew what you were all going to say...why don't you kill that Two girl who was not only fussy, whiny, rich and epitomized everything I hated about white girls but a general pain in my ass?

I would've, trust me. But first: I was broke as hell. Two: This was a client. She had money and we needed that money. So I did what I had to and held my tongue, sitting obediently on my sewing stool while I stitched up the dress a customer had brought in last week as I watched the exchange between my mother and Blondezilla in order to pay for our groceries this week.

See? I can be nice when I wanted to, despite what Carlos said about my inability to perform kind acts without asking for anything in return or insulting them.

Finally, as though she realized she needed air for her respiratory system to stay alive, Blonde inhaled sharply, clapped her hand and presented a thousand-watts smile, like we were a bunch of peasants who was profoundly lucky to be witnessing her smile: "And that would be all."

"Great, thanks," my mother said breathlessly, still tying up her note-taking as her pencil darted back and forth. "So when will you need the dress….?"

"Oh, next month. It's for the Selection," she smiled smugly as she looked down on my frayed jeans and tattered t-shirt, my mussy dark hair and unkempt demeanour overall. What was so bad about it? I felt like calling her out. _Yes_, if you hadn't noticed, I looked like every-freaking-body inhabiting the planet. Jesus. What was her problem? I stared her down. And she looked away. I was particularly proud of my stare-downs; they were fierce enough to make a hard-ass Castle Guard flee for the hills, screaming for Mommy.

"That's great!" my mother cried eagerly and placed down the notepad on one of the desks cluttered with balls of yarn and sewing needles. I could tell she was giddy about making her first sale in months and not to mention, a major deposit as big as this one. Business had been slow since Autumn was fast-approaching. Everybody was buying coats and bundling themselves in layers instead of hiring dresses for summer parties. But today was different. She regarded me inquiringly. "Rosalind, may you please escort out Miss…?"

"Brynn Watts," she flipped her blonde hair and inspected her manicured nails as I tried not to snort and roll my eyes.

"_Fine_." My mother sent me another warning look. Being as polite as I plausibly could, I glued on my prettiest smile. Following my mother's direct orders, I led Brynn towards the front of our shop, past our counter and opened the door for her.

"Thanks for choosing the Campo Seamstress Company," I rattled off dully, the same advertising lines mother had coached me to spout about our greatness and other similar bullshit. She didn't say a word, ignoring me as she was suddenly indulged into her phones and it's latest updates and left hastily, the door swinging and creaking as she exited. "And go to hell," I ended the sentence the minute the door was closed and she was out of earshot, her blonde hair merely a speck of gold in the distance and her stuck-up attitude so far up her ass you couldn't even see it.

Good freaking riddance.

When I've returned to the back room behind our peeling counter, my mother was preparing cups of coffee, toasting our bread over the open fire in the small stone alcove. The heat was emanating and crisped the air, making me shed off my thick wool coat. But nonetheless, I had a bone to pick with my mother.

"Is it me," I said as I hung my coat on the rusted nails my father hammered into the walls, "or have our clientele seemed to drop in IQ every sale?"

"Rosalind, I _so_ do not need your attitude this morning!"

"And yet you live with it everyday," I reminded her as she plopped the steaming mug of coffee in front of me and I smiled angelically at her, like the sweet adorable angel I was. She made a sound of disbelief and pushed the mug towards me. I gladfully gulped the hot liquid down and it warmed me to the very marrow of my bone. The delicious, tangy scent of roasted coffee floated into the air and melted the atmosphere, turning it's frosty winter bite into a much homier environment. I slowly settled onto my seat as I bit into freshly-toasted bread.

"It's still too much to take," she rubbed her temples, as she sipped her morning coffee, "in the morning."

"At least Carlos wasn't here," I started, stirring the coffee with my finger. I didn't mind it being too hot. I just like the warmth shooting up my singular finger, spreading throughout my whole body. But as though he was summoned, my brother's clunky footsteps carried through our dingy store as he descended the stairs connected to the backroom of our shop Carlos was the epitome of the atypical good-looking Spanish men, with dark hair, amber eyes and dark olive skin. His hair was still wet from his shower and he was yawning as he wordlessly occupied the wooden stool besides me. Without asking, he snatched my coffee mug and drained the cup to every last drop as I evil-eyed him.

"Hey, asshole," I shot, teeth gritting as he returned the empty mug, "Heard of the word sharing? Or asking?"

Carlos simply rolled his eyes and flipped me the finger while I fumed and prepared another mug of coffee. Cretins. I was already pissed since it was so early in the morning, doubly pissed since I had that Blonde Satan within five metres away from me and even more pissed that my coffee was gone.

Carlos's grin was full of teeth. "I do but where's the fun in that?"

Before I could lunge and start our customary bar brawl at the dead morning of seven am, mom intervened. "Anyway," said Mom, lacing her fingers together as she registered us sternly and her brows knitted together- the universal language for _Watch it. Try anything and your face become the new target board for my hand_. She wiped our table with an old, ragged cloth. "We're running low on some sequins and bread. Will you guys mind running the groceries while I start on the dress?"

"You got a new client?" perked up Carlos, lighting up like a Christmas tress.

Mom beamed excitedly "It's a good one. At least five hundred."

Carlos whistled, high-pitched and piercing into my eardrums. "Damn."

"But she's a bitch," I added, though rather unnecessarily and my mother sighed.

"Oh, get out of my sight you two." She raked through her dark hair and pulled it into a loose, unkempt bun with a pin as she dumped our mugs into the sink. She marched away from us, nose in the air, as Carlos and I shared identical grins. Mom was honestly too easy to messed with sometimes.

* * *

><p>Bonita was a place split in between two different worlds. There was the high-profiled, sparkling beach houses by the coast line. The houses were massive, usually completed with sprawling twenty-acre lawns, cobblestone streets that looked as they've been scrubbed clean by a toothbrush and a glamorous view of a private beach front of palm trees, golden sands, a horizon of a dark deep blue and salty sea breezes.<p>

I hated it.

But if all of you chuckleheads haven't realized it wasn't too hard of an effort to piss me off or hate something.

My scale of hate?

Well the scale goes: urgh.

_Oh great._

I hate this.

Screw you.

And 'Fine'.

When a girl said 'I'm Fine', she's not really 'fine'. In fact, at that current moment, she was imagining pummeling a hammer through your car windows. 'Fine' was pretty much imbedded into the Girl Code. Behind every 'fine', there was a woman mouthing 'go screw yourself'. To sum up my hatred for how much I hated the upper castes was 'fine'. I hated how that place was on the high mountains; a plethora of beautiful, fancy buildings for the rest of the population to admire but could never. It was almost taunting, dangling it on a hook for everybody to see.

And then there my part of Bonita- a place the locals had nicknamed it the 'Hood', an evaporating neighbourhood of stucco buildings and black cinder streets that was running out like water through a cupped hand. It wasn't so much filled with crime as it was with poverty. Homeless Eights crawled around the sewer system, hats and clothes laid out on the floor to collect money. I avoided eye contact with their hopelessness evident in their eyes. The sunken lines of their faces. The hunched-over, disfigured bodies. The swollen knuckles. The old, worn clothes.

Over the years, I've mastered the art of an indifferent face whenever I passed these people so I wouldn't feel guilty or suppressed the incessant need to hand over my dwindling money supply. The last thing I need was more mouths to feed. I already had enough trouble shoveling food down my own throat.

Since most of earnings went for electricity, water and rent, food was considered a luxury we couldn't afford. The local supermarket was too pricey for most of the inhabitants so instead they invented an alternative: The Lank.

The Lank was a black market that operated in an abandoned warehouse that used to be a storage area for coal. You would think the black market would be nondescript, silent and anonymous but it was fairly crowded and busy. Carlo and I decided to split up; as he traded some dresses mom had sewn for bread, I would went over to Miss Segey for the sequins my mother had requested.

Miss Segey was already entertaining a customer when I stopped at her booth. A short girl around the size of 5'1 was in front of me, trying to barter several dresses for a piece of what looked like expensive Egyptian linen. Her hair was a very brown colour while her eyes were an aqua blue-green, the shade of the sea, and she was using lots of hand gestures as I waited for her to be done.

"The linen is expensive," sniffed Miss Segey as she eyed the dresses distastefully. The dresses were sort of beautiful, though, I noticed from behind her small built. There was a red one that was particularly nice. It wasn't showy or flashy with lots and lots of shimmer and diamonds added, but the asymmetrical cut was rather interesting. It was modern and it was an attention-grabbing dress without being too much, something people struggled with finding the line between. Miss Segey didn't see that beauty. "There's no way I'm trading for several dresses."

The girl was adamant, determined to push the sale. "But…"

"No buts," Miss Segey cut off her sentence, "There's that and it's final. Now don't bother me, little girl."

"I'm not a little girl," she started heatedly, "My name's Kira and-"

"And you're wasting my time," said Miss Segey firmly. The girl, Kira, huffed and moved the hair falling in her eyes, gathered her dresses and marched off as I replaced her. Miss Segey brightened when she saw me, the corners of her scowl turning into a smile. It was ironic. Usually, others did the _opposite _when they've received the full pleasure of seeing me in the flesh. "Rosalind! So long no see; are you here to buy some materials?" She held up a floral piece of cloth hopefully as I shook my head.

"Nah," I poured several coins onto the filthy, rust stained table. "Just some of your sequins. Mom wants the pearls- oh and the sparkly ones, if you will."

Miss Segey was a Russian immigrant who moved to Illea decades ago. She was a five, an artist who took advantage of selling off extra bits and pieces through the Lank in order to help the community. I didn't know much else about her except that her husband died of a terminal illness several years back and she became a widower, dedicating her life to art while giving back to the community. I knew I was a cynic, who believed everybody was horrible and everybody did everything for their own gain but Miss Segey was one of the rare individuals who weren't too bad. Sure, she was a tad grumpy and bitter sometimes but honestly, in this lifestyle, who wasn't?

Miss Segey and I had a successful trade; some bronze coins in exchange for pearl and diamond sequins. When we finished business, Carlos and I reunited over by the exit but Carlos was holding hands with his current girlfriend, Eva and when I saw their shifting silhouettes by the door of swarming crowds, they were talking in low voices. I hid behind a large silver cargo and overheard their conversation.

"I haven't had my period in two months." Eva's voice was quaking. She wasn't crying but there were tears in her eyes as I came by. My curiosity flared. What was wrong? "I'm...I'm afraid I might be…" she choked as she covered her mouth and began sobbing silently into her hand.

"No, no you can't be," Carlos was trying his best to reassure her but he appeared as though he was saying things against his better judgement. He cupped her face and kissed her cheeks softly. "We were so careful."

"I could go to jail for this," she shuddered, rubbing her hands up her arms like she was shivering. But there were fires ignited all over the room. "And...and I can't. We have to get married."

Carlos bit his lip, a nervous tic he had picked up whenever he was stressed out or anxious. "Look, I'll try to come up with as much money as I can," he promised her, looking deep into her eyes. "And we'll get married. A small one. And we'll have that baby." He kissed her forehead and a lump in my throat swelled.

So Eva was pregnant with a baby. Another mouth to feed. As if our incomes were spread thin enough. I loved Carlos but it was still infinitely stupid for him to get a girl knocked-up. Once Eva bid Carlos goodbye, I casually slid out of my hiding spot and joined Carlos by the exit.

We walked in silence the whole way home. Carlos was deep in thought, his forehead wrinkled and his eyes a hundred miles away, calculating the possibilities and chances of raising a child under this sort of condition. And I was thinking of ways to help. Money was really our only problem and that created all sorts of other problems.

I wanted to kick something. Or punch something. I knew resorting to violence was really low, even for me. But I was already a Six and eating out from a bowl full of food I traded at a black market. How low could I possibly sink?

We arrived home. Carlos instantly head up to his small bedroom as I helped my mother cut up fabrics for the Blond Satan's dress. I couldn't think of an idea to help Carlos until the Capitol Report came on after dinner.

"Santiago is such a nice boy," was all my mother could go on about in her overbearing, motherly tone as bread was broken into halves, shared and soup was drank around the table, "So well-mannered, kind and good-looking. Why don't you like him, Rosalind?"

"I do like him," I explained, irritated that this was the fiftieth time we've been harping on this subject but I guessed that just tell you how much of an insanity my mother was. "Just not that way. Besides, he likes someone else. We're just friends."

Honestly, what was it with people these days? Can't a guy and a girl be around each other without people pointing their fingers and accusing them of being more than just friends?

"Oh honey," my father said soothingly, calm and relaxed. My father was like a tree; a simple-minded man just willing to get by. "Just let her like who she likes. Accept her for what she is."

"See, Dad gets it," I pointed out. I loved Dad. Though he didn't really have much of a spine against my mother, he was always calm and level-headed, unlike my mother who seemed to favor panic attacks than being generally sane. "Two against one. You've been outnumbered."

"What? This- this isn't a _democracy! _I'm your mother and I know what's best for you..."

"Santiago's a great guy," I shrugged, muffled by a mouth full of bread and soup. I swallowed the hot liquid painfully and then registered my sentence eloquently: "But he likes that other girl Caylee. Simple as that. We're friends."

My mother sniffed and dipped her bread into her soup. Before she could swallow the chance to make another remark about how I didn't try hard enough to seduce Santiago (Seriously, what mother encourages her daughter to do that?), the radio on the kitchenette counter top fizzled and crackled to life.

"_On the Capitol Report, we're now heading into the segment about the Selection. King Jaxon had agreed to increase the funds for the monetary compensation towards all valid participants of the Selection…"_

I couldn't be bothered to listen to the rest of the report as I drowned it out by spooning some soup. And then, the idea collapsed onto me like a ton of bricks.

The Selection!

I jerked upright, eyes widening when I hadn't realized. How could I be so blind? It was the perfect chance to get the funds for Carlos's wedding! Sure, it was me against the names of thousands of other girls but what would I lose just to insert my applications into the roster?

Suddenly, a slow smile was settled on the edges of my lips. It couldn't be more of a better idea, really.

* * *

><p><em>At the castle...<br>_

"Oh come on!" yelled Calis as one of the men auditioning slipped on one of the nunchucks and fell, sending the whole line of armour-cladded men falling like dominos. "All you _ladies _are lousy. I could fight better when I'm drunk!"

As a demonstration, Calis unsheathed the sword from her scabbard and wielded it; the weapon comfortably at home in her grips as she launched into a series of vigorous strikes and counters. Disemboweled stuffing of the dummy spilled out of the dummy's wounds as she twirled the blade expertly and finished with her usual flair, hacking off it's head and pulling it apart from the dummy's body.

"Victory!" she screamed out, triumphant. "And _that's _how you use a weapon."

The audition's participants broke out in loud cheers. The boys who were auditioning stared at her in admiration as she bowed down and blew kisses to the crowd. Xavier watched in the distance, leaning casually against a pillar, amused as he shook his head at his sister's antics. She was so bloodthirsty sometimes.

"And now, let's go for a five minutes break," she declared, clapping her hands as the group of men spurn in excitement at the thought of a break. She dismissed them and unlatched the buckles of her armour, revealing her in a soaked black tank top. She dumped her armour besides her gym bag and saw her brother lurking by the corner, leaning on the wall while he scanned the area with a cheerful grin.

"What are you doing here?" she inquired cheerfully. "Seeing me beat up a bunch of losers right there?"

"Expertly too. You've always been a fan of beheading."

With ardent enthusiasm that made everybody question her sanity, Calis laughed. "Yep! Bunch of pansies, if I could say." she said vehemently to the auditionees who she was supposed to get on the newest unit. "They're even more frightened than a bunch of Miss Geraldine's sissies."

"You know, you could be working them a little too harshly," chuckled Xavier as one guy collapsed in exhaustion. "God knows you're a freaking fanatic."

"It's not fanaticism, you son of a bitch." she defended, "It's being thorough. Dad put me in charge of the army. And I'm whipping them into shape. "

"Not literally, I hope."

She didn't even bother to roll her eyes. "You, Xavier Fallon, are a _douchebag._"

He grinned infectiously. "And that's why you love me."

Calis punched him in the arm. And as she drank deeply into her water bottle, their mother walked through the doors that led towards the training grounds. Her dress was silver today, startling against her caramel skin tone. Instantly, the guards scrambled onto one knee.

"Your majesty," they all said simultaneously.

"Oh, you _ladies," _muttered Calis as her eyes met her mother. "What do you want?"

"Calisia, your tone," abhorred their mother as she lifted her skirts to avoid ruining it in the mud scattered along the plain fields of the training ground. "Anyway, I'm here to tell you that you all have guests."

"Guests?" repeated the Fallon twins at the same time.

"Yes," repeated their mother, "Guests. They're mostly Xavier's. Get change, Calis. I won't have you looking like a pig."

When she left and was out of earshot, Calis folded her arms. "Bitch. You get those genes from _her_," Calis packed up her gym bag and started towards the direction of her room. After they've showered, changed into their formal clothes with the wondering thought of who was the possible guest, they both entered upon the golden gates of the Throne Room.

The Throne Room was built right after the House of Schreaves had died out as Renesemy Schreave had failed to produce an heir- female or male- and was passed on to one of her cousins on the maternal side. It was given to the House of Fallons and Xavier's predecessor, Lancaster Fallon, extended and rebuilt several rooms and vicinities of the palace. One of his most famous rooms was the Throne Room.

It was two hundred meters tall and stretched out in nearly a mile long and five hundred meters wide. On the right wall of the Throne Room were a series of paintings and tapestries of every family who had ruled Illea and on the left wall was photographs depicting the war between New Asia, Russia and the United States, how the United States were ultimately decimated into ruins and how Illea had form into a nation. It shifted, changing scenes at it went because that wall had been orchestrated by scientists. It was basically a touchscreen. The ceilings were also breathtaking; it was entirely made out glass- a skylight that allowed the beautiful natural light to awash the room in an incandescent glow, the floors were white marble, there was a golden plaque above the thrones embolden with Illea's mantra: **Long Live Illea! Love Live the King! **and some bunch of Latin in-scripted to legitimize it and the thrones itself were grand chairs crafted out of silver and encrusted with diamonds and Swarovski gems.

Their father was on his throne, the one on the highest pedestal, and their guests were patiently waiting, standing before the King. Calis had changed into a modest black dress; a clear, precise choice that adhered to her taste. Calis, when she was forced to wear dresses, preferred minimalistic fashion. She despised anything pink, or floral, so she resorted to tailored basics. Black, white, mostly monochromatic shades with the occasional glimmer of diamonds on her neck or ears. Xavier, however, refused to be in his most formal clothes but stuck to his usual run-of-the-mill brand of his hunting jacket over a faded t-shirt, jeans and combat boots.

"Xavier," their father's voice rang throughout the Throne Room, a smile on his face. "Guess who's here!"

The guests, it turned out, were more familial than they thought.

"Holy shit," Xavier's eyes were about to pop when he saw his two best friends standing by their father, grinning from ear to ear. Calis's reluctant expression brightened as she waved at them. "Brooklyn? _Castellan_? What the hell are you two doing here?"

The two best friends of the Prince Xavier was Sir Castellan Woodsen and Lord Brooklyn Blackwood. Castellan Wooden one of the many Illean diplomats who went to the same University in England along with him. The pair had been as thick as thieves since they could walk. Castellan was similar like the Prince but if possible even more notorious. While Xavier's personality exuded in confidence and borderline arrogance, Castellan was more towards troublemaking and pranking exclusive members of state. He loved stirring up trouble, _that _was for certain.

Brooklyn was more reserved, known as the one with the most common sense while immaturity was split right between Castellan and Xavier. It was no secret Xavier's mother liked Brooklyn a lot and were always complaining about how she wished she could be more like him. Brooklyn was the Marquess of Cambridge's son; he wasn't massively titled or majorly related to the Monarchy of England but his family made it up for titles with money. They owned large sanctions of property and land in England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland; their bank accounts were vast enough to rival their own country's GDP. As for titles, Brooklyn was only a mere son of a viscount but his money kept others on their toes. Ironically enough, Brooklyn and Xavier _hated _each other during their childhood. Back the ages of their per-adolescence, Brooklyn had thought Xavier to be childish and rather self-absorbed. Offended, Xavier announced that Brooklyn was anti-social and cold. Xavier went as far as making life hell for Brooklyn in court. Tearing his books, tripping him in the palace's corridors, giving him cruel nicknames; Xavier and Castellan did whatever they could to aggravate him.

Then on a strange occasion, during one of the Marquess's visits to Illea, Brooklyn and Xavier had challenged themselves into a sword fight. They were at neck to neck when they were both drained out of energy to continue the duel. In the end, they called a tie, shook hands and became friends. It was then Calis decided she would never understand males. They were almost as complicated as females.

"I thought you were in busy in England, working for your father," wondered Xavier, regarding Brooklyn and turned to Castellan, of whom looked like an excited puppy who'd been given too much caffeine: "And you were on one of your diplomatic missions."

"And miss out my best man's attempt to woo thirty-five girls?" chortled Castellan as he patted the Prince of Illea on the back. "Like I ever passed it up. This is pure blackmail material."

"It's you, Cas," Xavier marvelled at the two guys in front of him in total disbelief. He wrapped Castellan into a big bear hug. "It's really you. Asshole in the flesh."

"Hark who's talking," snorted Brooklyn as he kept his distance. Brooklyn could barely tolerate his invasion of privacy, which was Xavier refrained from strangling him into a bear hug similar to Castellan's.

"And you're still the same," Xavier laughed, giving Brooklyn a fist bump which he took into stride. "British and all that. You know, sarcasm is the lowest form of wit."

"Sarcasm is the only thing that keeps me from telling wankers what I really think of them." They broke into a faint round of laughter. Brooklyn's humour was always the cleverest.

"And this," Castellan nudged Brooklyn and Xavier on the shoulder and swinging his arms around their necks, "is why we're friends." Castellan glanced around the Throne Room, soaking in the castle. "It's like nothing change." His eyes flitted from the surroundings to the girl tapping her leg, expecting her welcome. Calis was pouting and frowning when his eyes landed on her and he livened. "Calisia, what's up man?"

"Finally," she huffed, uniting with the rest of the crew but she was smiling so hard she thought her face was about to melt. "Took you long enough to finally realize I was there the whole time."

"It was hard to notice you behind Xavier's giant ego," remarked Brooklyn, smiling dryly at Calis, "which seemed to have inflated in size."

"Of course, it had," smirked Calis at Xavier's expense. "It's the only thing big about him."

"Hey!"

"Last I saw you, you were this munchkin with long hair and weird ankles. How was the trip around the world? You were fifteen back then. And now, look at you..." Castellan let out a cat-call as Calis rolled her eyes but blushed nonetheless.

"The trip was fine," she said, cheeks pink. "You look good. Brooklyn too."

"That's my sister, you bastard," Xavier shoved Castellan and he stumbled, but smirked. "And she's gay, if you hadn't been keeping up with those magazines."

"Why would I read magazines? I am a man!" cried out Castellan, mocking theatrics. Xavier shook his head nostalgically. Castellan and his happy-go-lucky merriment had never failed to make anybody laugh. "A man who does not spend his time reading gossip magazines."

Brooklyn massaged his head, doctoring a recent headache that had been sprung by his weird best friends. They were strange and too loud for his poor ears, but they were not bad for friends as far as friends went. "Also don't forget to add a man with infinite stupidity."

"Oh you're just jealous, Brook."

Brooklyn's eyes burned murder. "Don't call me Brook. Sod off, for bloody hell's sake."

"Angry Englishmen," Xavier whispered into Calis's ear and she giggled. "Anyway, what should we do on your first day back? Flood the Women's Room? Toiler-Paper the Gardens?"

"Honestly," Castellan tutted, as the foursome shared the same identical, evil grins. "Your creativity hadn't improve either. Do something different for once. We should do something more extravagant now that the band's back together!"

Queen Tallulah, upon hearing those shouted words, clutched her chest. "Oh God," she muttered as her husband patted and comforted his wife, chuckling at the excited, babbling boys (and girl)."I think I need sit down."

King Jaxon's chuckling doubled in efforts as he steadied Tallulah onto her silver throne and the Queen glared at her husband, cuffing him behind the head. "What are _you _laughing about, Kitchen Boy?" she glowered at him as he laughed even more, using the nickname she labelled on him when they first met. "I remember you when you were Xavier's age. Always making difficult. Putting frogs into the containers of our makeup, filling our rooms with goose feathers..."

Jaxon sheepishly smiled at his wife and resorted to changing the subjects. "Well, they're just young boys being young boys, Tallulah."

"And what about Calisia?" she asked, horrified as Castellan tackled Calis, who fell onto the floor, laughing harder than before. Castellan picked up Calis and spun her around, like she was one of his guys. "They're playing _rugby, _that barbaric sport, with her. And not the _touch _one. The tackled one! She's a lady. What if she gets hurt?"

"I hoped to God she could handle a game of rugby, Tallulah. This is the woman managing our armies."

Tallulah swatted him in irritation and pursed her lips at the previous jab. "Still," she huffed out a sigh. Her eyes softened. "At least, Xavier will have some company during the Selection."

The King nodded. "At least. But God forbids someone give them the shaving cream, I still haven't recovered from that."

The Queen winced, remembering the painful encounter of landing her head onto the pillow only to find it stuffed with shaving cream. The mess had been deplorable and it had _Castellan _written all over it. They were a nightmare but she decided, as a small smile escaped her lips, life would be too boring without them.

* * *

><p><strong>Hullo. Yeah, five thousand words. I all hope you're happy. So yes, Xavier <em>actually <em>has friends. Someone can stand the bastard. Lord Brooklyn and Sir Castellan, of whom I will spin some _very _interesting plotlines (yay for romance, heh?) with some of the OCs.  
><strong>

**Rosalind was actually one of my _favourite _character to write. She's just so...bitchy and mean; she's definitely a fiesty fireball and her dynamics with aforementioned prince would be hilarious and I think, for all the characters _and _readers, extremely entertaining.  
><strong>

**But what did you think?**

**What do you think of Rosalind?**

**What do you think of the addition of Brooklyn and Castellan?**

**And any feedback?**

**Love and lolsauce,**

**Electra.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey guys! Time's almost up and I've only ONE SPOT LEFT! The last province available is Clermont astonishingly. **

**Disclaimer: Don't own stuff.**

Chapter 4

The Perfectionist

Evangeline Butler

My lips pursed as my dark eyes quickly looked outside the window to see if we were there yet only to find it occupied by a couple at a park bench, holding hands. They shared a kiss and I turned away immediately, disgusted. Relationships, in my opinion, were overrated. They were immature, selfish and pointless. The majority of people who are in them are only in it for sexual pleasure, but other than that, it's a waste of time. Why would I ever want to invest in something that I'm not 100% will work out in the end, not to mention becoming emotionally compromised if a break-up were to occur. It was kind of sad and pathetic that so many people keep choosing to enter relationships with the hopeful intent that they can relate to someone on a sexual level. I may never have been in a relationship nor plan to be in one, but maybe it's just my destiny not to be in one. I'm going to save a lot of time and money by not being in one. Being in relationship was just asking for a whole lot of trouble.

Restraining a sound of disdain, I switched my attention to the faceless driver thrusting the car deeper into the countryside.

"When will be there?" I inquired, keeping my tone into a calm, harmless query.

"In an hour," he replied crisply in the same calculated manner.

"Will Mother be there?" I tried not to be hopeful. Hope, my father repeated like a mantra, was for losers. It bred internal misery. Hope was a tease, simply put. It dangled stupid things such as dreams and aspirations on a hook, as though we had a chance to reach for it only to be deceived by pathetic simpletons telling you that you can achieve it. I refused to be like those hopeful dreamers. They only sit on their lazy butts all day and think about getting it done, unlike me- I'm a Butler. I get things happening or I don't at all. And if I wanted it, I'll find a way to have it no matter what. There was no in between.

It could've been my imagination but the usually emotionless driver had a slip up of slight sympathy showcased on his face as he broke the news: "She cancelled last minute, Miss Butler. She had work to do."

I hated it but I felt the disappointment leaking into the pit of my stomach. Thank God, I had one hell of a poker face. Twisting my face into a mask of indifference and classical nonchalance, I nodded: "Thank you."

My father had cancelled on me the instance he found out my mother was taking me to the post office to hand in my Selection application. Now my mother had bail, claiming to need to do work, I supposed I'll be going alone.

Fine.

I was used to doing things alone.

Really, it was the only way I would ever get my peace of mind.

Biting my lip, I forced the tears to go away. I don't cry. Crying was for losers, I reminded myself. Crying was just an excuse for weakness. In an effort to ward my feelings away, I returned to my battered book. It was a tattered copy of my father's version of _Art of War_ by Sun Tzu, an ancient Chinese military general, strategist and philosopher. It was so old. The spine was bent and cracked, the pages were breaking and crackling, many of the corners were dog-eared and there were dust gathering by the cover. But it remained one of my all-time favourites to read in order to pass the time and despite having read it about three occurrences already, I found myself soaked into his words of wisdom and devouring them. His words were my motto. His words were everything I lived for.

_"Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak."_

I smirked as the neon yellow highlighted words jumping out at me when I flicked to the bookmarked page. It was certainly my method of operation of how I would thrive in this competition. Deception was still my best method in my ally. The Selection, from what I've garnered, would be I supposed a stretch from my walk in the park. Of course, I was an easy reader of dispositions. The Selection's girls seemed to be divided into two categories- overly hormonal, insecure teenaged girls lusting over the prince or destituted daughters sacrificing their happiness in order to collect some money.

But I never know. Some might be different.

Luckily, I was always best prepared for surprises. It wasn't the Prince I was so worried about, it was mainly the other girls. But with people, there were always weaknesses and I'll find it, then eliminate it. I could do this. I swept my hand down my outfit, which I've cautiously selected to fit my agenda. A regal, purple slinky peplum top over a fitted tweed skirt with a pair of nude pumps. I had my customary black headband with my straightened hair, of which I've killed with a hair iron. And makeup was for no less of words, perfect. It was not too much; it was more of an accentuated sense of features- mascara and eyeliner for the eyes, light foundation to cover up my pores and lipgloss.

_Perfect._ Butlers settled for nothing less, I thought as Father's words rang inside my head, loud and clear. I smoothed the wrinkles out of my skirt. That maid who did my ironing would be fired. She did a horrid job on the skirt.

"Would you like some food, Miss Butler?" the driver asked kindly, bringing me out of my reverie.

Speaking of food, my stomach grumbled in response. I clutched it and swallowed the saliva forming in my mouth. "Why, yes please." The driver leaned over to the glove compartment and reached for what looked like a colourful wrapper of a chocolate energy bar. I wrinkled my nose in disgust. "Maybe not," I declined primly. "Nearly two hundred calories in that thing."

The driver was puzzled, his brows furrowing in confusion, but he slid it back into the compartment. "Whatever you say, Miss."

Flipping my hair back, I could never allow any setbacks in the Selection, especially since my father was riding hard on me about this thing. Butlers were trained for perfection and expected nothing less, so that was what I was going to get- even if it killed me.

* * *

><p>By the time, I've reached the post office of my province, it was already bustling with girls ready to submit their application. I cursed under my breath, the foul word slipping out of my mouth loosely, as I stepped out of the car and saw the line. The line was literally from inside the post office's booths all the way down to the end of the street. I folded my arms, huffed and smoothed my skirt for the last thousandth time, blowing a strand of hair from my face.<p>

It was packed with women and made me feel claustrophobic. Too much estrogen in one place caused my pores to break out. Almost every girl in Hundson was signing up- expected, of course. It was a chance to marry the Prince and become a Princess, drowning themselves in gowns and jewels and all the promised finery? What deluded teenage girl wouldn't sign up for that?

I blanched at the thought of waiting in line. Butlers do not wait. They possessed it right away. In my polished, tailored appearance, I marched straight to the front of my line where two girls- a blonde and a brunette- were about to hand in their applications when I elbowed one of them in the stomach. The blonde one doubled over in pain, groaning as the brunette struggled to leverage her, and I stole the opportunity to swoop into her place as she fell onto the ground. Looking at her as though she was bugs beneath my feet, I smiled coldly at her as I took her place.

"Hey!" called out the other girl as she helped the blonde one onto her feet. She had warm brown eyes and her face was free "That was uncalled for. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Oh so many things. Where do I even begin with that question?

But I arched my perfectly plucked eyebrows. "It's not my fault she got into my way."

"Not her fault?" she crossed her arms, glaring at me accusingly. I sighed, pinching the nose of my bridge. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"A Butler. Now do me a favour and shut up."

"The name is Axella," she started out crossly, "And she's-" she pointed at the girl who was on the ground, "Cecilia. I won't shut up till you apologize."

"And I would not apologize until you learn how to use proper pronouns. Honestly, are any of you cretins educated?" Lips curling into a smile, I bathed in the glory of that burn and stepped up to the office's booth. I slipped them the application and signed that everything on my form was true. Then they ordered me to head over to the photographer where he was shooting commands to a girl who had caked herself in an ocean of makeup; her clothes were exquisite- since she probably a Two- and her hair was a bit too much, piling it into some sort of complicated updo that resembled a fat duck, in my opinion. She appeared as though she was dressed for her wedding day, about to marry the Prince.

"You know, you're kind of a bitch," hissed Axella into my ear as we queued in pairs for our photo. "What you did to Cecilia-"

"And you're kind of stating the obvious. Also, I really don't care what happens to Delia or whatever her name was." I ex[;ained to her as her face contorted, eyebrows sliding down deeper. And as I walked over to sit on the chair for my photo, I blew a kiss at her: "And haven't you heard? I'm the crazy bitch around here."

After the technicals were finished, my photo was taken and my application was approved, I was free to go home. And honestly, the competition has barely started and I've already gone out of my way to make an impression without lifting a finger.

This will show the girls what they were messing with.

* * *

><p>Dinner was a cold, heartless affair.<p>

Thick, frosty tension like bullets of hailing ice draping upon my neck as it settled around the tension as my father was reading text messages, my brother, Aidan, was smirking to itself as he texted the dozen other girls he was fooling around with and I was trying to sliced out the fat on my chicken. The chef had screwed up my meal..._again._ A scowl built upon my face as I finally cut off the lean piece of belly fat, irritated that this had happened before. I hated repetition.

I bit into my carrots as my father finally looked up from his phone and regarded me coldly with his dark brown eyes. His dark brown eyes reminded me of an abyss: hollow, consuming and devoid of any sort of emotion. Emotions and petty things like that won't get you far, her father advised her many numerous times before. "You've sent in your application?"

Methodically, I nodded and wiped my lips with my napkin. "Yes, Father."

"Good," remarked my father as he stretched his fingers and glanced at his phone. It beeped and tinkered; he let out a frustrated sigh. "Goddamn Whittakers," he swore and switched it off.

"You're sure you'll get in?" was one of my brother's quips as he crookedly fixed me with one of his many annoying, childish grins. He must've had a game today, from him adorning a fashionable bruise on his eye it must've been a good one. He was a hockey player, a fat load of time gone to waste, if you ask me. I was still not convinced that the job guaranteed my platoon of a brother an IQ ranked higher than double digits and funnily enough, I always thought that voluntarily and willingly signing up for a sport that gets you whacked in the head by hockey sticks on ice subsequently was a new low for stupidity, even for Aidan.

"Of course I will," I shot venomously with a customary flip of my dark brown ahir. "Why don't you just go back to staring at yourself all day, Aidan? You might gain a sense of intelligence by realizing you look like your face was on fire and somebody put it out with a fork!"

"Hey!" defended Aidan, "That's not what seventeen other ladies think!"

I resisted snorting loudly because it was unladylike so I resolve for proving him wrong, like he always was, with words as I narrowed my dark brown eyes: "That's because they've been rendered derisive by some sense of accomplishment in nabbing a hockey player! They're _idiots_! What were you expecting?"

"Children," my father said aridly, intervening before Aidan could throw his fork at me- juvenile move but effective. It got caught in my forehead once, during a fight which had sprung out of proportions, the sharp silver ends of the fork piercing into my fragile skin. "We do not argue like peasants. We're Butlers. We're groomed and we're refined and arguing does not solve any issues. Action does. Remember the Butlers' mantra?"

"Veni, Vidi, Vici," they both rattled simultaneously like a military chant.

"Caesar clearly had it well-adjusted."

"Yeah," drawled Aidan, with a roll of his eyes. "Till he got stabbed to death by twenty three men."

"Downfalls are expected," my father waved it dismissively, "But Caesar was a great man, a conqueror in it's very name..."

He didn't stop speaking- I just chose to stop listening.

The chinks and clinks of their silver cutlery colliding into the ceramic china imported the complete way from New Asia echoed throughout the cold, stony atmosphere. I tried to picture to the days when Mom and Dad were still together, when we didn't have to refer to them as 'Mother' or 'Father' and it was just the four of us who loved each other and cared for each other. Of course back then, being a Butler demanded perfection but it was less perilous. Everything was more relaxed. I was allowed to laugh in public and talked about which boys I thought were cute. Now I was either called a whore or received a bright red handprint on my face if I did any of the sort. Now my face was forever set in a stony mask of pure calculation; a smile could be interpreted differently, a scowl could meant victory. Even I was confused of what I really felt when I disguised it under my smirk. Was it satisfaction? Pain? Guilt? Happiness?

Now my father didn't call me 'Darling', especially after his divorce with my dearest mother. Now he was just mostly consumed with fatigue from work, complaining about his colleagues while Aidan resorted to distracting himself with women. Boozing, being violently smacked in the head with the hockey stick, sex and money was his method of a coping mechanism. It was difficult to be perfect because there was no such thing as perfection. What we Butlers have was something closest to it...for a price.

My outlet of trying to measure up to the inane expectations of perfection was sabotage. I was a vindictive, crazy, ruthless little bitch. There was no point in trying to change ir and I don't want to. I was a bitch in exchange for the closest thing I had for perfection. I was the girl walking down a school corridor you fear so terribly. What could I possibly do to you? Ruin you, dangle your little rumour when everything you built comes crashing down on you, smile and pop the champage as you ran home, crying about how your career was wrecked by some Butler bitch.

I was that Butler Bitch. Damn proud of it too.

I knew we Butlers were messed-up. Sabotage and getting what I was much easier than salvaging the pains and burns of the destruction of my family. Mom and Dad hated each other. Aidan was...well, Aidan. And I was forever expected to be the star, the sort who was expected to have no mistakes, no screwed-ups...wasn't that virtually impossible? I thought about what the girl had demanded of me: What the hell is wrong with you?

Oh honey, it was everything.

Achieving perfection was like drowning when everybody saw you breathing.

But I pushed the pain away like I always did. Disguised it behind a condescending smirk, a flip of my hair, a blown kiss to the screaming fans.

Pain.

Pain.

Pain.

It was almost like the word was seared inside my mind. Over and over again, stuck on repeat like a bad pop song on the radio station. Pain. The definition of pain was physical or mental suffering caused by illness or suffering. That's what pain was. That was what I was used to causing. That was what I was used to feeling. Pain, the excruciating feeling, was fear escaping the body.

And that was how I was going to win the Selection.

* * *

><p><strong>So there's Evangeline Butler for y'all. Hope I graced her well. Ryselie's POV is up next. And we will be seeing all of the other girls as we meet them at the airport and they'll go the castle...dun dun!<strong>

**So:**

**What do you think of Evangeline?**

**Excited for what's happening next?**

**Any feedback?**


	8. Chapter 8

**Don't own anything.**

Chapter 5

Planes and Reality Television

_Ryselie Kramer_

I sighed into the sweet, mellow air of Angeles as I stepped out of the aircraft and into what I called home. I inhaled sharply, breathing in the mild scent of the Angeles poppy. I ran a hand through my purple and pink ombre hair as I climbed down the steel stairs onto the airport's parking lot. The glistening rays of sunlight pierced through the winter clouds and illuminated the grey, drab surroundings. What I loved about Angeles was that even in the winter, it wasn't really _that _cold. It wasn't Sweden cold, that was for sure; where dense rolls of ice-cold sheets were sprawled across the grounds and everywhere else. Angeles's winter weather was sort of mild, around the vicinity of ten to twelve degrees celsius; like it was autumn elsewhere.

The airport traffic control officials led me in towards the airport: a steel and glass infrastructure of various other people bustling about. At this hour, crowds of travellers plagued the airport like moths to a flame. Businessmen with bulking briefcases, elderly and extremely rich tour groups who moved in an unbelievably fast pace that defied their ages, University students chugging down espressos, tourists with too much luggage and numerous screaming children, and amongst the maelstrom was me and a group of black and white palace officials. With my pink-purple hair, I was pretty sure I stood out amongst the crowd. I grinned. The hair was the whole point of it.

"Come on," one of the government officials who was walking with me said as he lugged my baggage over, even though I've offered to carry it myself, "We'll head over to the arrivals exit and meet up with the other girls. Then we'll head on down to the castle." I almost made a joke about how he said 'head on down' like he was at a rodeo, but then I realized how bad the joke and I decided not to inflict it upon the world.

The arrivals' exit didn't took too long to stumble upon and there was already a gaggle of girls patiently waiting by the exit. All of them casually dressed and sitting by the benches outside where coaches and transport were parked. One of them, a dark-haired with blue eyes, had a cigarette perched onto her lips, smoking as my eyes widened. But I didn't bother her. The official instructed me that I would be travelling to the castle in a limousine with three other girls. I wasn't sure whether to be nervous or excited at the thought of meeting new people. But I rubbed my palms on my knitted dress in excitement. I loved experiencing new things or seeing new people- there was always so much to learn from them.

The three girls of whom I was sharing a car with was awaiting me by the curb. One of them was a striking blonde with warm brown eyes, the other was a tall and athletic brunette whose tan skin was probably from being out in the farm all day, I'd wagered- and a timid dark-haired girl who seemed to stray from the other two.

"Your hair looks like a unicorn!" exclaimed the blonde when I approached them. "I'm Destiny, by the way and you are?"

I jolted back. I wasn't expecting the lack of tact and such jocularity that followed through but I took in stride. We were in a competition so I've predicted several of the girls would be cold automatically with their walls barred and defenses prepared. But instead Destiny was beaming at me, like a thousand suns burning at my face- especially with the halo of her blonde hair. "Thanks," I smiled brightly, self-consciously brushing my pink hair from my eyes. "I'm Ryselie. But call me Riley."

The girl with the athletic built graced herself with a small smile with her cupid lips and held up a hand. "Nice to meet you, I'm Rivera." She was less vivacious than Destiny but nonetheless, she still maintained her politeness of her tone. I firmly shook her hand. Besides Destiny, she appeared almost unfriendly but I was sure it wasn't the case. Rivera was most likely more guarded and respectful than Destiny, which was why she composed herself to withheld from cheerfully declaring it out loud or maybe she simply just wasn't nearly as enthusiastic as Destiny. "And this," she gestured to the timid girl who looked deathly terrified as the attention averted onto her, "is Tatiana. She's from Whites."

"Hi," Tatiana murmured shyly, but it was so soft that I had to strain my ears to catch it. She brushed her brown hair behind her small ears.

"Ladies," called out the official and opened the sleek, black limousine door for us, "Shall we?"

No one spoke another word as they hustled us into the leather compartments of the limousine and glided towards the glittering castle of Illea. When we were in the car together, Destiny had led on most of the talking. She was like an excited puppy. A cute, adorable humps-the-neighbour's-leg, marks her territory all over town puppy that you can't help but love...even if her relentless questions were a bit too much to take.

"So how did you get your hair done?" her eyes was wide as saucers the instance we slid into the car. "Did you dip in the lake at the end of the rainbow?"

Let's just say, I was at the loss for words.

"Um...no." Destiny was disappointed, pouting as Rivera and I exchanged looks. _Is she...serious? _Destiny seemed a bit of ditz...but she was tolerable nonetheless. I found it kind of cute, to be honest.

Rivera seemed badass to me with dark calluses in her hands and her tan skin from working under the sun too much. She explained to me how she worked in a farm under her aunt's wing. When I asked her how come she didn't stay with her parents, she stiffened.

"They're dead," she said briskly. There was something in her tone that made me not to question it further.

"Why did you sign up?" I changed the subject immediately. I could take the hint.

She relaxed, shoulders tensing. "My friends and I made a bet," she laughed. "I lost. And besides," she said darkly, "I need the money. My aunt's farm is dwindling down."

"Oh-oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

She softened. Then we proceeded to conversing, she divulged a bit on why her family's farm was losing out on the financial sides of things due to several groups of her aunt's rivals burning the crops of the farm. To cultivate Rivera said she had to sell several of the horses away, something which caused a tear to leak out.

And there's Tatiana, who hadn't uttered a mere word throughout the whole ride. She didn't come off as hostile to me; it was more as though she was afraid of what we were going to think if she tried expressing her opinions. Luckily, I was determined to carve her out of her shell:

"So Tatiana, are you excited for the Selection?" I prompted and Rivera shook her head, as if to say _I tried, believe me._

A frightened nod of the head. I sucked in a sigh. This might be harder than I thought.

"Is Angeles different from the Whites?" I inquired again, hopefully looking at her small white face. She nodded once again. "How so?"

"It's warmer in the winter," she finally responded, eyes avoiding mine. Her sentences were abrupt and her tone sounded as though she abhorred speaking.

"Yeah," I pitched in, "I heard Whites is beautiful in the winter. Flurries of white and snow capping those beautiful mountains, eh?"

She nodded slowly. I smiled at her kindly to show I meant no harm. "Tell me, what's it like?"

"It's pretty," she said in a noncommittal grunt.

Okay then. Well, you couldn't say I tried, can't you?

The whole ride was a subsequent journey of small talk with Rivera and the occasional bouts of Destiny exclaiming at the various sites popping up outside the tinted windows. I've got along pretty well with Rivera, who seemed alright and quice nite but private about several areas on herself- understandable. But I was mostly concerned about Tatiana. She was so quiet, so soft-spoken.

"Do you think she's alright?" asked Rivera, looking at Tatiana whose eyes were glued to the window, gazing outside.

"She's just shy," I excused presumably.

It was nearly fifteen minutes until the car slowly revved up the castle. My breath was stolen as I watched the castle rose into my view- a beautiful, glittering assemblage of white sparkling turrets, pale stucco walls and golden gates. It was situated up on the high, golden hills where the old Hollywood sign used to be before it was blown apart by the Chinese. It looked down upon the blinking city lights of Angeles.

We were whisked away from the spectacular magnificence as the car wheeled away into the long gravel drive that circled a marble fountain and led through the gates into an open-space courtyard. Instantly, we were swarmed with maids and servants and officials. The minute I clambered out of the car, two women grabbed me by the arms, separated me from Rivera,, Destiny and Tatiana and ushered me inside.

"We've to hurry," one of them said. "Especially for you."

I raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Well, _your _hair," the other tutted, "It's simply not princess material."

The retort died on my tongue.

The castle was grander than I imagined it would be. They told me where things were; the general rooms of where I could go and couldn't go. The Throne Room was only accessible to the King and it's immediate family, unless you were granted an audience with the King. The dining room was where we were supposed to eat, the Great Room was a major no-no for the Selected girls since it was where the Prince and the King met with advisers and concluded issues of state and the Women's Room, a place where the Queen and her ladies-in-waiting or female guests had tea and relaxed. As I passed by, I caught a glimpse of the gardens but I couldn't stop as they pretty much hauled me into the Women's Room full of bustling people.

As the crowds parted, I realized rows of mirrors and vanity tables were set up and some of the girls were already being made-up. As we stepped in, a woman in a scarlet gown and the scariest minty eyes came forward. She was beautiful, in that pale English sort of way, and had her dark hair down in soft cascading curls but unlike her hair, her face was pulled into a verboten, strict expression, her nostrils flaring so much that she was more likely to breathe fire than a dragon. The first thought that emerged in my mind when I saw her was this was _not _a person to be crossed.

"I'm Madam Geraldine," she introduced in a huffy accent. _British, _I detected almost immediately. I've spent summers in England and she spoke like most of the Brits if so even posher. "And you shall refer to me as 'Madam.' First priorities: we need to get you mic."

"Mic?" I reiterated, puzzled.

"Well, didn't you hear?" Madam Geraldine demanded brutishly. "Everything in the Selection will be filmed! It's reality television…"

"But I never agree to being-"

"Then we'll need 'before' pictures. Go over there to Gerard-" she instructed, pointing to a bearded photographer taking picture of a scowling redhead, "-and get it done. Then you come here and we'll get rid of that abysmal hair of yours."

"Excuse me?" I demanded, quite offended."My hair is-"

Her eyes burned at me. "Don't waste my time. I've no patience for foolish little girls."

She stalked away from me, marching over to a vanity table to yell at a makeup assistant for screwing up one of the girls' eyelashes. The camera crew who were sporadically sprawled across the whole room with a large moving video camera swarmed me the instance Madam Geraldine had finished with the instructions.

"I'll need to clip this on your bra," one of the cameramen said, waving the tiny black mic in his hand. "So do you mind-"

"I'll do it myself, thanks."

His expression was somewhat annoyed, as if he was exasperated that I thought he was going to molest me or something but it was a fair assumption. However, he relented. "Okay, fine. Put it at a place where the mic's closest to your mouth. We want to pick up your voice and put the mic pack-" he held up a black little box with a clip attached to it- "in a back pocket or something. Understood?"

I nodded.

"Great." He handed me the mic pack. As I turned around to the other side to consist as much privacy as I could, I pulled down my dress that revealed a white bra and clipped onto one of the straps. Then I connected the pack onto the hem at the back of my neck.

The mic guy checked whether I've adhered to his instructions and as he was adjusting my mic pack to a more appropriate position, a man in a crisp powder suit made his way towards me. I recognized his face from the business magazines my father read during his spare time.

It was a TV show producer, Mr Tenor Keren, a powerful man behind the scenes. He looked like a _Times _ magazine cover for a man his age; sandy hair combed back with several streaks of grey a la 1930s style, cool and hardened grey eyes and a tall, stooping figure of 6'5, cladded in a business suit and tinted aviators. He had been lounging around, remarking with the camera crew and had this vexed assistant at his beck and call and usually never absent without his phone and a cup of black coffee. He was the infamous creator of television shows such as _Overrated, Down the Rabbit Hole _and _A-Listers, _along with a string of reality television like _Get Real, 99 Problems _and _Making It. _I wasn't too much into reality show to watch if they were any good, but all I knew was he was mega-successful.

I felt my muscles tensed when I saw him walking towards me; all confident, suave and formidable with his pressed suit and business-like aura. I don't know whether my pink-and-purple hair was the most...suitable to meet him. "Jamin, don't be so harsh on her," commented Tenor, smiling widely. His hand shot out and shook mine. "I'm Tenor Keren, the executive producer of _Selected: Era Xavier._"

"_Selected: Era Xavier_?"

"Oh yes," he said, very pleased with himself. "It's a new show I've collaborate with the Royals and Casper Fadaye, dear old friend. It's reality television with the Selection. And I don't want you to worry- it's just cameras here and there, everywhere. Nothing to fret about."

"Oh- I'm not worried," I replied tautly. "It's just I wasn't aware."

"Well, now you are. Off you trot!"

I didn't know why I was so queasy with Tenor. He was alright but the way he smiled and scanned me over made my skin crawl, as if he was thinking about which strings to pull to make his show a hit. The problem with reality television was that it had a seriously misconcepted idea of 'reality'.

Gerard, the guy who I was supposed to take my 'before' pictures, was a pretty laidback photographer. He was this weedy guy with a beard, plaid flannel t-shirt and a beanie on his head even though there were heaters blowing hot air all around us. His whole self reeked of a hipster persona as he adjusted the wired-framed glasses and his massive camera hung limply around his neck.

"So babe, I have to say- LOVE the purple hair," he pulled up a chair for me to sit. I didn't hesitate to sit next to him as I raised my eyebrows at his way of speaking, so straightforward and upfront, it was refreshing and all business. "It's just so…" he trailed off, pausing and searching for a perfect word, "...kawaii. It's a new word. I spent some time in New Asia for a while. Anyway, the point is you can't keep that hair, baby girl." He tapped his finger onto his chin as he gave me a once-over and jumped in before I had a chance to say anything, "I was thinking we go platinum blonde. That could be your whole shebang cause baby girl, you'll rock it. It could be like _totes _Swedish beauty. Bring a little European in our culture."

He had spouted it all so fast I barely had time to breathe...and _he _was the one speaking.

I blinked, struggling to process everything he just said. Didn't he mentioned 'platinum blonde' somewhere along his sentences? "Yeah sure," I nodded eagerly, beaming. "I mean, you're the expert."

He glowed at the compliment and flipped his hair, despite the fact that he had not much hair to flip. I loved his vibrancy. It was hard to get used to but it was much warmer than Madam Geraldine's stern lecture. "See, complimenting the one who makes you look fab? Smartie right there," he patted me on the shoulder and readied his camera. "Smile for it, baby girl."

Gerard's enthusiasm was the only reason why my smile was radiating happiness in that picture.

Unlike the lower castes, I didn't need to scrub or exfoliate since my skin was already near the Selection's standards. It was just a general face wash and they've doused my face into a mixture of scented oils, rose petals and lotions. After the basics of cleansing and making my skin as smooth as a baby's butt, I smelled like a fruitcake- or grapefruit because the girl who was applying them filled me in that it was Prince Xavier's favourite fruit.

Grapefruit, huh? That was an odd choice for a favourite fruit. The conventional ones were usually apples or watermelons.

The attention was then spun to my hair. Yes, apparently- according to Madam Geraldine- they were a problem. They draped a large silver cape around my neck as a team of professionals worked on my hair. I touched the end of my purple ombre. I was going to miss my purple hair.

"You're getting rid of it?"

A voice shocked me out of my trance. It was that redhead I spotted with Gerard before me. She was getting her hair done too.

I ran my finger down my pink streaks and nodded. "Yeah, they're not 'princess-like'," I utilized air quotes around the word 'princess-like', "According to _her._" I jammed my thumb at Madam Geraldine, whose scowl seemed to be a permanent feature on her face.

"Yeah, she's a bitch," huffed the redhead. "She told me I needed to drop some calories if I wanted to fit in a dress."

I gasped, my hand covering my mouth. "No!" I was flabbergasted. "How could she?"

She shrugged, endeavouring nonchalance but I could she was actually pretty hurt about that comment. It was criminal to say things about a girl's weight when she was so clearly far from it. "It's no big deal. A size two is 'fat' to her anyways."

"What's your name, by the way?"

"It's Isobel."

"Oh, you're Isobel Marx from Carolina?"

"Yeah, that's me," she said tightly with a smile to match her tone. "You're Ryselie Kramer, right? There's the unmistakable pink hair that stood out from the rest."

I chuckled at her joke. "You're correct."

"I heard you were with that Destiny girl," her crystal blue eyes shifted to Destiny, who was marvelling loudly at how her nails were so shiny. Destiny, being the cutie she was, was examining her nails with a magnifying glass, admiring how they glisten and asking the fellow beautician how it happen. "She's such a dumb blonde."

I felt my defenses stirred at Destiny. She might be a bit clueless but...I don't know, I found it endearing and I didn't like how people took Destiny's wild fascination at how everything functioned as stupidity. "But she's a sweetheart," I retorted coldly. "At least it's better than people who talks about people behind their back."

Isobel wasn't offended. She handled it quite coolly, which I could respect. She just raised her eyebrows, astounded at my quick-tongue about Destiny.. "Okay, I guess she isn't so bad. Better than _Evangeline,_" Isobel rubbed her forehead. "She's a freaking nightmare."

Isobel was obviously exaggerating so I rolled my eyes. "She can't be that bad."

Isobel just snorted and we returned to stony silence as the hairdresser ordered me to the other stations to wash the blonde dye out of my hair. After the dye was washed out, they shampooed, conditioned and blew it out so it was showered on my back in light streams of champagne blonde.

And I didn't speak another word with Isobel.

Somehow as I skipped over to the makeup station, I caught a glimpse of Tenor smiling widely at me, with his eyes darting from Isobel and I as he stroked his chin. Somehow, he must've gotten what he wanted with Isobel and I, some kind of drama and it was all recorded with a camera and our mic packs.

My blood turned to ice.

Did I just made a big mistake?

* * *

><p>Tenor Keren smiled as he reviewed today's footage. He could already see it- the cocky, charming Prince Xavier and thirty five other girls catfighting over him. He pondered as his pen hovered over the paper. There were so many refreshing personalities, so different dynamics…<p>

He stretched his fingers, groaning after a night of paper works and networking associates, and drank several gulps of his herbal tea. His doctor had been advising him to watch his diet a bit more, so he had gone on a cleanse for several days. He'd avoided most solids, imbibing an abundance of herbal tea, clear asparagus soup and raw vegetables.

Finishing his tea, he pressed the button on the edge of table and the buzzer set off, connecting his intercom. His assistant, Lysia, efficient as ever, came in: "Yes, Mr Keren?"

"More tea, Lysia. And has Gerard show you the before pictures?"

"About the _Selected: Era Xavier _project?" asked Colleen, "Yes. They're beautiful. Would you like them on your table?"

"ASAP."

Lysia sighed, her breathing scratching against her speaker. "Very well. And Jamin's coming in five with the chamomile."

"You know me too well, Lysia," grinned Thomas and the intercom switched off. Cracking his fingers once more, he rose out of his chair, his limbs uncoiling after hours of being held hostage at his office from too much work. Pinning his gaze upon the expensive Picasso hanging on the beige wall behind his desk and chair, his lips formed into a self-satisfied smile.

Let's see how long these girls could last under the heat of the spotlights.

* * *

><p><strong>Finish!<strong>

**Hope you like it! And I've hoped I portray everyone correctly. :3**

**Remember to review:**

**Do you like Ryselie?**

**What do you think of the reality television idea?**

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**Thanks!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Don't own anything.**

Chapter 6

Dinner and A Few More

_Gracielle Winters_

My fingers coiled around my newly-chopped hair, uncertain on whether I liked it or not. It was much shorter than what I was used to but it framed my face like never before, floating just above the hemline of my creamy dress. I was just trying to see how I felt at my makeover as the producer's assistant, Lysia, ordered me to follow her into a room.

"We'll be interviewing you on how you feel about the makeover," explained Lysia as she practically dragged me by the arm into another room. In my opinion, Lysia looked..._exhausted. _Her brown hair was flat and dull, there were eye bags under her eyes and she was literally walking around the palace in a white buttoned blouse and sweatpants. She needed a makeover more than anybody in the Selection. The room she led me into was different, less cluttered but bombarded with camera wirings, lights and crew around a black leather chair. "Sit down there and just do your thing."

I nodded aptly, my mic pack snugly digging into my skin as I meekly sat onto the chair like she instructed me to.

"So, Gracielle Winters?" asked the interview once the red light lit up on top of the camera.

"Yes," I responded, feeling trapped as the cameras and spotlights brightened on me. I blinked at the painful brightness, my skin itching from the lenses.

"So, have to say- _love _the haircut," the interviewer remarked as she picked up a recently printed piece of paper with my 'before' picture on it. "What do you think?"

"Um," I hesitated, tugging on my dark strands and loving the . "I like it. The length makes my face looks nicer."

The interviewer laughed, her cackle was the most phoniest thing Gracielle had ever heard. "That's great!" she exclaimed brightly, eyes widened almost comically due to her piled-on makeup. "So I have to ask you- how are you finding the Selection so far?"

I suddenly realized I haven't form an opinion yet- all the way from the airport to the castle had been such a rushed blur, I realized I didn't even had time to see how I really feel about this. I mean, being swept away in jewels and dresses was any girl's dreams but surrounded with thirty five other girls who looked ready to clump you with heels and strangle you with ropes of pearls for the Prince and surrounded by the cameras and spotlights and interviews...I actually realized I feel kind of...caged. Like that closing feeling of claustrophobia was coming in...just like on _that _night.

I swallowed and steered clear of the memories, so sharp, so ripe. "It's great so far," I methodically, "I mean, the girls have been so nice." That was the thing- the girls had been nice...to a degree. There was Evangeline, who I thought was like me- y'know, quiet and rigid She was but she was also a major control freak. Brynn was a total brat. I wanted to stick my head into an ice bucket of water every time she opened her mouth. Ophelia was ...nice. And that was all I could go on from her. "And the whole process...it's just been kind of overwhelming."

The interviewer nodded, faking geniality and sympathy: "I can imagine," she simpered. It took all of my willpower not to roll my eyes. "Anyway, thank you for your time. That would be all."

I was surprised with the lack of the third degree but generally happy that it was over. Lysia escorted me out of the room to a waiting area where two girls, Teagan Catalist of Baffin and Avia Mureno of Fennley were talking animatedly. I almost didn't notice Clarissa Brooks of Hansport taking a seat right next to me. "Hi," she greeted cheerfully. "You're Gracielle of Dominca, right?"

I nodded, not exactly willing to make conversation. "Cool," she said, carrying most on the conversation. "I like your new hair."

It was polite, yet somewhat frosty at the same time: "Thanks."

She somewhat realized I wasn't interested in the conversation at all and gave up with a laboured sigh. Guilt leaked through but I couldn't repair for the damages as Madam Geraldine entered the waiting area with a flurry of girls. They filled up the vacant seats of the couch and soon I found myself squashed between Alana Porter of St George and Anna Wilkerson of Sonage. Madam Geraldine adjusted her glasses by pushing it up on the bridge of her nose and staring through the squeaky clean glass as she observed them with her minty cold eyes, as delicate and hardened as crystal ice sculptures.

"Well?" she arched one of her eyebrows.

The girls were confused as they exchanged worried glances, frazzled by the brisk tone of Madam Geraldine.

Madam Geraldine sighed, exasperated. "Curtsy!" she hissed as they scrambled onto their feet and managed a messy, scrappy bow. Madam Geraldine tsked and tutted as they finally drew themselves into full height. "Utterly deplorable," she shook her head. "No, this won't do at all."

Gracielle bristled. Of course, they weren't experts! Just five hours ago she was in an informal breakfast, eating her sandwich with her own fingers and living the life of an atypical person in the bourgeoisie. Was she automatically supposed to be professional at etiquettes? Obviously not. But as usual, she held her tongue and kept her opinions to herself.

"We'll do curtsying lessons first thing in the morning," she remarked sharply. "Now follow me. I'll give you girls a quick tour and show you your assigned rooms." She clapped her hand and obediently, the girls stood up to leave. In the official tour she said was the Great Hall was used for banquets and parties and the place where their makeovers took place was called the Women's Room. We were shown where the Royal Family ate; a gorgeous room that was dominated by two long tables- the oak one for the Royal Family and the ash wood for us. Our places were marked by elegant name cards in each chair. I was sitting next to Darcie Evergreen of Belcourt, the girl with the cigarette, and Shannon Oliver of Wavery with Serena Howard across of me.

We left the dining hall and continued on up a set of stairs where it was the second floor; where all of our quarters reside. Madam Geraldine pointed out that the floor upstairs of us were off-limits, since it was the Royal Family's private chambers. Intrusion was punishable by whippings. I gulped and rubbed my sweaty palms onto my floral skirt. Madam Geraldine also showed the backdoors that led to the garden.

"Do not under any circumstances," Madam Geraldine paused as she narrowed her eyes at Shannon Oliver who had been giggling loudly over her speech, authority ringing over the resonating, opulent maze that was the palace, "go out. Rebels had been rumoured to be hiding there." She said it all with a nasty, little smile as we exchanged worry expressions.

I shook my head, trying to diminish any type of fear I felt shiver up my spine at the thought of it. We rounded the corner where we came to a hallway of our rooms. Lush carpets was so soft underneath my heels, I felt as though I was about to sink into the ground. Sunlight streamed through the high windows. The air was choked with the scent of their perfume, mingled with Queen Tallulah's favourite lilies. Tapestries and paintings of previous kings and leaders were displayed grandly on the wall. The whole group was silent as we journeyed the castle, admiring in gentle fascination.

"Your things are already in your room and so are your maids," inform Miss Geraldine aptly, but then she was interrupted by three boys who were shirtless...Gracielle widened her eyes. Axella dropped the book she was holding.

"Oh my God!" squealed Eilley Worchester like a deranged fangirl, bouncing on the balls of her ankles.

"Hello ladies," said the dark haired one with defined muscles twitching and flexing as he came closer towards us that was beyond my comfort layers. I could smell the sweat exuding off his body as he showcased a cocky grin and the girls blushed, averting their prying eyes as they fought the urge to gawk at his half-naked form. I knew I was trying not to count the intricate patterns his taut muscles formed. "Lord Castellan," he winked at me and I felt a blush traveled up my cheeks.

"Showoff," snorted Xavier, throwing a shirt onto Castellan's face as we drew ourselves into a quick bow. Madam Geraldine's throat produced a whinge at our deplorable bows. "Ladies."

"Your...majesty," we all managed, flustered at his...state. Especially me...it was so…._vulgar! _

"I apologize for these idiots," said another one of Xavier's masculine friends. He, unfortunately, was not as bare as the two other men. His buttoned-up, stiff blue suit was a proclamation that he was probably somebody exceptionally important. But his voice had a distinct accent to it...one that was similar to Madam Geraldine. He shamelessly cuffed both of them in the head and dragged them away with an apologetic, modest smile while they heard small snippets of his berate towards his two best friends.

"Did that _man _just hit the Crowned Prince?" asked Teagan Catalist, aghast.

"We British prefer to judge people by their merits," said Madam Geraldine huffily, smiling slightly after the boy's brief departure, "Not by their ranks. Come along now, everybody!"

The girls broke out into a flurry of giggles and chatter. "Did you _see _the lines on his…?" Shannon Oliver clutched her stomach and fanned herself. I could see Darcie Evergreen who was right next to her rolling her eyes, but dryly amused by her antics as a half-smile betrayed her.

"As much as I'm sure you appreciate the merchandise," smirked Darcie pushing Shannon playfully and laughing. Her head snapped up to Madam Geraldine's direction. "We got to keep up with Madam Death."

We swiftly swept across the second floor, dropping off all the girls into their rooms. My room was tucked inside one of the corners, not caught in the middle of all the other girls. Darcie's room was besides me. I didn't know if I like that. Darcie was the type of girl who was funny with the crowd, cracked inappropriate jokes and mellow in all type of situation- I didn't know much of her background but wasn't she like a stripper or something? I remembered shaking my head to myself, wondering how the hell did a _stripper _get into the Selection...and then I felt myself clenched with worry. Maybe that was what Xavier liked. Someone with a sense of humour, someone who could be chaste and sexy...unlike her, who was proper and reserved and quiet.

Once Madam Geraldine had left and I was on my own, I opened the doors of my room and was instantly greeted by three ladies in the room.

One was knitting a small jumper and the other two were cleaning an already spotless mirror. The room was much more grand than I was used to. A canopy bed with cream tassels and white quilts, a window bed overlooking the elongated fields of green grass and chequered by lace curtains. There was a massive bathroom with sparkling, marble tiles and a sinking granite tub with various soap supplies.

"Miss Winters!" The one with the knitted jumper leapt onto her feet upon my arrival. "Oh, you're here! What would you like?"

I was thrown off-guard by their geniality but they made me smile as they worked tirelessly on me. My suitcase was securely fastened, awaiting me on the foot of my bed and as I approach it to unpack, they demand it that they'll do it for me while I rest.

"Oh no," I started, feeling rather awkward by how they were doing everything for me. "Please, don't. It's just-"

"Rest, Miss Winters," they insisted simultaneously. I relented, of course, only because I didn't want to seem rude. It was, after all, their job.

As they unclipped my suitcase open and began folding my clothes into the exceptionally large wardrobe by the corner, there was a knock at the door. One of them- her name was Kayla- went to retrieve it but I shook my head. "Let me get this." I smiled kindly at her.

The door was nearly rammed open by the vigorous knocks at the door. When it opened, Darcie Evergreen stopped short and greeted her with an amiable expression: her customary half-smile half-smirk and a cigarette dangling between her fingers, dwindling smoke from her lips and the cigarette tip.

"Hey, so do you know when Dinner starts?"

My face scrunched up in puzzlement. "Um, no. I was not aware…"

Without any invitation, she surged into my room, pushing past me. "Hey, cool room," she marvelled, fascinated. "But it kind of looks like it' s been decorated by a blind nun."

I choked back my laughter and nodded, realizing her point. "Yeah, sort of. But it's nice," I added wistfully, hand running over the velvety materials of the walls.

"You're Gracielle, right?" Darcie jumped onto my bed, gazing at me intensely with her piercing blue eyes which had been accentuated by a thick eyeliner. "The jeweler. Tell me, how the hell do you be around so many diamonds and not be a jewel thief?"

"Um…" I regarded her weirdly, folding my arms. "I...sell them?"

"Hey, man," she waved me off idly, attempting nonchalance but I could see through her facade. She was honestly hoping we could establish amiable contacts. "It's fine. See you around." She extracted herself off my bed and sauntered out of my room, her hips swaying in natural seduction, as she banged the door shut.

Did you _had _to chase her away, Gracie? I asked myself.

My maids were a god-send. They prepared me a rose-petal bath that smelled like a spa resort. My hair was gathered into a loose bun, held with these delicate golden pins tipped with diamonds. My breath was taken away as they fitted me into this beautiful gown with a plain black strapless satin bodice, the waist line embedded with silver diamonds, and the skirt fanned out in loose salmon pink chiffon. It was so long that Kayla, the head maid, had to scoured the wardrobe for a pair of four inches platform heels so I wouldn't stumble I was seated on the vanity set of a mosaic designer mirror and a stainless white dresser as they worked my makeup, freshening it as they reapplied the mascara and salmon lip gloss to match my skirt.

Madam Geraldine collected me at six to dine with all the other 35 girls. They were all so breathtaking in their own dresses. Their floor-length gowns were long enough to sweep the floor without the need of housekeeping. Their heels clicking on the flood was an elegant stampede of beautiful women, ready for dinner.

I took one last look of my reflection into the mirror, a reflection I barely recognized in the gown and makeup. I was doing this for a dream, _our _dream. Aurora, Tiana, Jaelynn and I's dream.

Murmurs were exchanged here and there. I spotted Darcie with Shannon, the girl Mckenzie Fray from Kent and Elle Madison of Zuni but I didn't chat with them. We all journeyed into the Women's Room, which had been cleared of all the mirrors and vanity stations, and replaced with plus, comfortable purple couches, tea stations of cute finger sandwiches and silver tea cups.

We all seated ourselves. I was next to Paige La Rose of Ottaro, enjoying a warm porcelain cup of tea. There was a TV broadcasting _Illea's Report. _It was the same announcements as usual- how the budgets were cut for food supplies to pour into resources for the army fighting the rebels in the South and so on. I found myself drifting off, not paying much attention to the news. I adjusted my focus onto the television as the Report switched on to our airing of the first episode of Illea's Selection reality show.

"The girls are just _so _nice and wonderful," commented the on-screen Evangeline as she beamed and tucked in a strand of loose dark hair. I could've vomited all over the carpet floor. As much as I despised it, Evangeline was stunning on camera. With her rich olive skin and dark flowing locks, her beauty resembled a Roman goddess in the fantastic lighting that enriched her features. I spun my eyes towards Evangeline, who was sitting upright, smiling predatorily at all the other girls who looked struck by Evangeline's unwavering stage presence on the camera. Evangeline was in a stunning glistening number; a Roman Gladiator inspired gown with it's tunic white chiffon skirt inserted into a silver metal bodice and a draped open sleeves that exposed her bare shoulders. Her dark hair was braided into a Roman crown half-up half-down. She looked elegant, yet ready to battle- the Gladiator Queen, I could almost envisioned the public calling her. Evangeline was by Brynn's side, whose fair beauty contrasted with Evangeline.

Brynn's pale hair tumbled into a high ponytail. The rest of her hair was tightly pulled into the single golden band. Her cheeks were soft pink and her lips were the same shade. Her pastel pink dress blended in sweetly with her pale, porcelain skin tone. A sash bow was wrapped around her delicate, skinny waist. She was in the middle of laughing, whispering into Evangeline's ear as they giggled and gossiped. They looked like the girls everybody feared in school.

"Speaking of _nice _girls, looks like Miss Gracielle Winters had formed an impression on the others as well!" The narrator spoke and I froze at the sound of my name echoed over the Women's Room speakers.

I was genuinely astounded when I saw myself appeared onto the screen. I didn't looked too bad. I was pretty. If only Tiana and Aurora was around to relieve this moment with me. "I mean, the other girls have been nice," On-screen Gracielle laughed and I winced. Why did I _laugh? _It sounded so bad! If Tiana was here, she would've smirked at my embarrassment. "And the whole process is just...kind of overwhelming."

It ended of course. Short, brief and nothing compared to the screen time Evangeline hogged but they projected me as friendly and someone to like. After the television special, dinner adjourned. It was a magnificent feast. More food than I've ever seen or was used to. I was never starved, of course, but it was so much, I was pretty sure my dress was bulging at the end of the night. I returned to my room and my maids changed me out of my heavy dress. Stuffed with food and content with merriment, I crawled into bed and fell asleep.

Then, the next morning I was awoken by a piercing scream.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry for the late update. School's been a bitch.<strong>

**REVIEW!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Sorry for my late update! School has been _killing _me. **

**Don't own much!**

Chapter 7

To Start the Competition

_Paige La Rose_

I didn't know how the other girls were faring in their rooms. Probably well asleeped, but I couldn't do a wink.

My room was softly lit, the shadows of the flickering candles dancing across the wall and exuded a calming, woody scent throughout the whole room, soothing me into a relaxed state. My maids were all very kind though Lucinda, the Head Maid, was a bit overbearing as she demanded to check on me twice before lights were off.

My pillows was amazingly soft; like a feather's caress tickling my cheeks as I buried my head into it. I tugged the silk quilts all over my body, drowning in the softness of the material. I rolled around in my larger-than-life bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, still trying to fall asleep while contemplating the prospects of what tomorrow would bring.

It reached to the point where my impulsivity consumed me and I couldn't be content with lying still when there was a whole castle to explore. The floor was cold when I landed on it with bare feet and treaded towards a coat hanger where my bath robe was hanging. I wrapped it around my silk white night gown, twisted open the door and poked my head through it.

My bare feet padded against the carpeted floor as I moved out of the door and softly closed the door behind me. With a smile on my face and a spurt of glee shooting past my limbs, I took off into the hallway and began my journey through the castle.

In the dark, the castle was totally different. It's atmosphere transformed from opulent grace to eerily creepy with the vast hallways empty from the servants milling in and out, the portraits of past government officials and kings staring down at you in the dark...I tried not to let the nerves get the better of me as I scoured the area, my excitement conquering my fear. I slipped by the guards, unnoticed.

My expertise with sneaking around came from the many times I've searched my stepfather's second-hand antique store, looking for strange objects and pocketing them for greater inquiry. The most memorable item I've ever found lying around stepfather's store was this novel, an abnormally frayed book that went by the name...what was it again…._Harry Potter! _Yes- it was Harry Potter and the Philosophical Stone. Most of the time it made references to things I've never heard of before but I guaranteed it belonged to someone who lived in the ages of the old nation, the USA. The book was still intact but barely. The spine was bent, the pages were cracking, the cover was missing but the story was magical- no pun intended. It quickly became one of my favourites.

I passed by the other girls' room, quietly sweeping the floors with my nightgown. I skipped down the stairs from the second floor to the bottom where the Great Hall and the Throne Room resides. Never having a chance to find out what it looks like, I pushed the door and tried the handle but it was clasped tight.

Then as I entered the quarters of the dining room and the kitchen, I noticed the kitchen's lights were still on, filtered through the tiny gaps between the shut door and the reflective marble floor, which had been polished to a glistening perfection. My curiosity piqued and I jerked my head towards the door, wondering what could possibly be happening. Hitching my nightgown with my two hands, I started toards it.

Naturally, I crept my way towards the door and pulled on the knob, expecting it to be locked. Much to my surprise, it gave way and I pushed it as it hung ajar close to the hinges. My eyes trained at the view I found- Calis, her majesty princess, in a white scientist suit and a pair of eye goggles pouring something into a large beaker.

She was fixated, muttering to herself as she placed the beaker onto the kitchen counter and barked out harshly to no one in particular: "Give me the mercury. Hurry! I need to set it before the boiling time."

Footsteps rang, heels clicked as someone's maid uniform blocked my view by walking in front of me. "Here it is." It was a girl's voice; one of the maids who was helping out by the Women's Room with our makeovers this noon. She had a long head of long, dark blonde swishing around my face as she appeared by Calis's side with a bubbling, effervescent tube of something silver.

"What's this for?" she asked and Calis's lips tightened as she brushed one of the short bangs into her pixie, her fingers curling around the tongs that held the tube. She cautiously dripped several droplets of the silver liquid into the beaker and the substance inside the beaker hissed, fuming off the vapor as the sound slithered into my ears.

"Something important," she responded inscrutably. I narrowed my eyes into a squint. What could it be?

Unexpectedly, my clumsiness became the death of me- I lost balance on my left foot and my reflexes failed to catch me before I hit the ground unceremoniously.

Calis and the blonde maid jerked back in shock. The glass tube dropped out of Cali's metal tongs and clattered onto floor. It shattered, the liquid spilled everywhere and I hastily clambered onto my feet, dusting my dress off as I drew myself into a scrappy bow that would sent Madam Geraldine into a seizure.

"Y-your majesty?"

"What the _fuck _are you doing here?" Calis's eyes were burning with sparks of rage. Her head snapped at the maid. "Clean it up!"

The maid jolted into action skipping over the puddle of broken shards and silver goo to grab a mop and a broom.

"I'm so so sorry! I- I didn't _mean _to intrude-"

Much to my surprise, she didn't treat me the way she treated her army- with her quick temper and fiery, heated words. The tension between her shoulder blades relaxed and the anger in her eyes wilted. The maid began scooping up the glass dripped in metallic liquid. Calis looked relatively better as she straightened her jacket with a tug and regarded me cautiously. "I apologize for my language," she said shortly, sounding genuinely sorry. I let out a breath of relief. If I needed to be in more trouble for being out of bed at this time, it wasn't necessary to have the King's daughter on my cause about invading her personal space and business. "Come and sit," she patted at an empty wooden stool.

Though I was most fearful of her, I didn't deny her request. "Of course," I flitted hurriedly to get my buttocks upon the stool. "What are...you making?"

"It's for my father," she explained to me at my look of confusion. As the maid dutifully cleaned up the mess, she strode over to one of the cabinets to grab a new vial of the silvery liquid. "You see to wrangle the spot for captain of the army, he allowed a six-months trial with me. This-" she shook the corked bottle, "-is an invention of mine. A stimulation that will be injected into the body and gives the mind an illusion of a predicament the stimulated person will be in. It'll test the mind of the soldiers, test their abilities to problem solve." She smiled confidently at the end of her description, feeling prideful of what she came out with. "What do you think?"

"It sounds great!" I commented brightly. "Ingenius. It's safe?"

She nodded. "I'm trying to do some trials upon myself before carrying out before my father. He _has _to approve…" she bit her lip nervously. I've always thought Calis, the princess, to be sort of...I don't know, ungrateful on what she had. She was the princess, an heir to the throne, accustomed to many beautiful dresses and an abundant life full of riches behind these diamond walls; when she renounced her claim and bitched around about how being a princess sucked, I assumed she was spoiled- but here I saw a girl who was weary at being conformed into dresses and high heels. She simply wanted to be someone who was destined to be the best general there ever was.

Calis swirled the tube after she poured the silvery contents into the final beaker. The mixed liquid swirled, making my head dizzy, as it spun. "Put this at the crate," she ordered the maid, placing it into her hands. "Thanks."

The maid nodded obediently and stalked off, her low heels clicking on the floor as she went away.

"So how come you're here?" asked Calis nervously.

"Oh- oh, I couldn't sleep. So I just...wanted to explore."

"Haven't you heard?" Calis's smile was filled with teeth. "Curiosity killed the cat."

"You're incorrect," At her cocked eyebrows, I added hastily: "Your majesty."

"Call me Calis," she chuckled heartily. "I was just inquiring you to explain."

"Well, curiosity didn't kill the cat. Knowledge did. Curiosity was framed for murder."

Calis fiddled with a teaspoon, "Hmm," she mused. "That's one way for looking at it. But-"

She was interrupted by a hollow, piercing scream that awoke a castle. They both jumped at the blood-curdling shrieks that was echoing through the halls, an outowordly cry that sounded as though it couldn't be produced from a human's throat. My blood froze and my heart pounded in fear as I jolted from my seat and looked at Calis for answers, alarmed. Calis pulled her face into a winced grimace as another scream was heard.

"What was that?" My voice came out as a squeak. Shivers ran down my spine. Was it rebels? I've heard people telling me that rebels had breached through the castle walls before.

"It's coming from the Women's Room," Calis said. She grabbed the nearest knife lodged into the metal hooks and went sprinting out the door into the dark castle with me on her heels.

The only form of light that assisted me in following Calis was the slight glint of metal reflecting from Calis's knife. My heart was in my throat, wondering the worst...the _rebels…_

They rushed up on the flight of stairs towards the floor where the screams were coming from, the line of dorms...where the rest of the Selected girls were sleeping. A lump contrived in my throat. What if they were all dead, killed by rebels? And I was safe…because I went for a bit of late night venturing.

Faint lights from the torchlights of the castle guards by the hallway leading to the girl's rooms provided most of the light and a clamour of awoken girls murmuring to themselves as Calis shoved through for a better look. "Out of the way!" called out Calis, her tone commanding as the girls parted like the red sea.

"Let her go, Axella!" Estelle Blake of Yukon shouted amongst the pandemonium.

Axella had her arms bounding the hands of a helpless-looking Lilah Grace, from Manchester. Blood streaked out from Lilah's wrists and a rusted, blood stained knife lying several metres from her. Axella was struggling to haul her away from the knife, of which then she continued to shriek profusely.

"I'm _trying _to stop her from killing herself- Jesus, dude!" She gritted her teeth as the blood made Lilah's hands and arms slippery.

"Don't hurt her!"

"I'm _not _hurting her!" protested Axella angrily. With a perfect swipe of her leg, she kicked the knife away from Lilah who was trying to bite away Axella's fingers off.

"Let me go!" Lilah thrashed around hysterically, tears streaming down her face. Pools of blood leaked before her balled-up fists.

"What's happening?" Our heads swivelled towards the source of the voice, which belonged to the Prince. Everybody, with the mild exception of Axella, Calis and Lilah, drew themselves into a bow. Someone intervened immediately- Cecilia

"Y-your majesty, it's- it's Lilah!" she said, hands covering her mouth. "She tried to kill herself. And Axella-"

"-is trying to _stop _her from offing herself," finished Calis as she surged in to help Axella calm Lilah down, who began sobbing uncontrollably. I watched as Calis administered her wrist wounds, biting her lip. "We need to get something to calm her-"

"I've got it." Darcie Evergreen emerged from her room with an injection needle. My eyes widened as her spindly legs carried her out towards the clamouring group. Lilah's insanity seemed to heighten the instant minute she caught sight of needle.

"No, please!" she begged, tugging on Calis's arm like she want to tear it off. "I can't- you _can't- _don't let her-"

"Stay still or not this needle is going to accidentally hit her carotid artery." Darcie moved towards Lilah. Axella and Calis both worked together to pin her down, entangling their limbs with hers, forcing her body onto the floor as Darcie fluidly jabbed the fine pin into her neck and pumped in the drugs into her system.

There was no sound or movement from Lilah. She was still and then she started to convulsed violently.

"She's having a fit," whispered Robyn of Sota into my ear. "What do you think happened to her?"

I really don't know.

"Good thinking," Calis congratulated Darcie, impressed. Darcie brought the needle down speechlessly as she nodded her thanks.

"Lilah?" Xavier kneeled by her side. His hair was tussled up from his pillows. Lilah's face was deathly pale. Her eyes closed. He pressed two fingers against her neck. "She's breathing!"

A dozen officials, guards and maids swarmed along with the Prince and carried her away. We watched wordlessly as they hauled the unconscious girl towards the hospital wing, her head bobbed and lolled aside as her body was tossed around like a ragdoll. I didn't know Lilah particularly but I felt sorry for her. The maids hurried over to where Axella had found her to clean the blood from the carpet. I cringed, trying not to think about the mess.

Everybody didn't say a word until Darcie spoke up, rather dryly: "What a way to start the Selection, huh?"

* * *

><p><strong>Review! <strong>

**Tell me what do you think JUST happen?**

**What about Paige?**

**And any feedback?**


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